BUTTERED   SIDE    DOWN 


COPR.,    1912,   BY   F.    A.   STOKES   CO. 


• 


BUTTERED  SIDE 
DOWN 

STORIES   BY 
EDNA  FERRER 

AUTHOR  OF  «DAWN  O'HARA" 


WITH  FRONTISPIECE  IN  COLOR  BY  R.  FORD  HARPER 

AND    OTHER    ILLUSTRATIONS    IN    BLACK- 

AND-  WHITE  B  Y  THOMA  S  FOG  A  R  TY 

AND  IRMA    DEREMEA  UX 


THIRD  EDITION 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.    STOKES   COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


n/ 


COPYRIGHT,  1912,  BY 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANT 

COPYRIGHT,  1911,   1913,  BY 
THE  PHILLIPS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,   1912,  BY 
COLLIER  AND  NAST,  INC. 

COPYRIGHT,  ign,  BY 
THE  CURTISS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,   ign,  BY 
STANDARD  FASHION  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  1911,  BY 
THE  RIDGWAY  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  igix,  BY 
THE  RED  BOOK  CORPORATION 


All  rights  reserved 


March,  IQI2 


FOREWORD 

"A  nd  so"  the  story  writers  used  to  say,  "they 
lived  happily  ever  after" 

Um-m-m — maybe.  After  the  glamour  had 
worn  off,  and  the  glass  slippers  were  worn  out, 
did  the  Prince  never  find  Cinderella's  manner 
redolent  of  the  kitchen  hearth ;  and  was  it  never 
necessary  that  he  remind  her  to  be  more  careful 
of  her  finger-nails  and  grammar?  After  Puss 
in  Boots  had  won  wealth  and  a  wife  for  his 
young  master  did  not  that  gentleman  often  fume 
with  chagrin  because  the  neighbors,  perhaps,  re 
fused  to  call  on  the  lady  of  the  former  poor  mil 
ler's  son? 

It  is  a  great  risk  to  take  with  one's  book-chil 
dren.  These  stories  make  no  such  promises. 
They  stop  just  short  of  the  phrase  of  the  old 
story  writers,  and  end  truthfully,  thus: 

And  so  they  lived. 

E.F. 


261183 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.  THE  FROG  AND  THE  PUDDLE      .       i 
II.  THE  MAN  WHO  CAME  BACK     .     17 

III.  WHAT  SHE  WORE 38 

IV.  A  BUSH  LEAGUE  HERO     .      .      .58 
V.  THE  KITCHEN  SIDE  OF  THE  DOOR     78 

VI.  ONE  OF  THE  OLD  GIRLS     .      .      .    102 

VII.  MAYMEYS  FROM  CUBA      .      .      .121 

VIII.  THE  LEADING  LADY    ....    139 

IX.  THAT  HOME-TOWN  FEELING  .      .156 

X.  THE  HOMELY  HEROINE     .     .      .176 

XI.  SUN  DRIED 193 

XII.  WHERE  THE  CAR  TURNS  AT  i8TH  210 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Reproduction  in  color  of  a  painting  by  R.  Ford 

Harper Frontispiece 


FACING 
PAQB 


"On  her  face  was  a  new,  strange  look,  as  of  some 
thing  half  forgotten" 52 

"Ivy,  I  don't  like  that  ball  player  coming  here  to 

see  you" 68 

"Slowly  and  gracefully  had  waded  into  its  chilling 

midst" 78 

"I  guess  I  haven't  refused  you  the  way  the  dames 

in  the  novels  do  it"  .  ,    110 


BUTTERED  SIDE 
DOWN 

i 

THE  FROG  AND  THE  PUDDLE 

A  NY  one  who  has  ever  written  for  the 
-**•  magazines  (nobody  could  devise  a  more 
sweeping  opening;  it  includes  the  iceman  who 
does  a  humorous  article  on  the  subject  of  his 
troubles,  and  the  neglected  wife  next  door,  who 
journalizes)  knows  that  a  story  the  scene  of 
which  is  not  New  York  is  merely  junk.  Take 
Fifth  Avenue  as  a  framework,  pad  it  out  to  five 
thousand  words,  and  there  you  have  the  ideal 
short  story. 

Consequently  I  feel  a  certain  timidity  in  con 
fessing  that  I  do  not  know  Fifth  Avenue  from 
Hester  Street  when  I  see  it,  because  I've  never 
seen  it.  It  has  been  said  that  from  the  latter 
to  the  former  is  a  ten-year  journey,  from  which 
I  have  gathered  that  they  lie  some  miles  apart. 
As  for  Forty-second  Street,  of  which  musical 
comedians  carol,  I  know  not  if  it  be  a  fash- 


?/:;•;  V BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

ionable  shopping  thoroughfare  or  a  factory 
district. 

A  confession  of  this  kind  is  not  only  good  for 
the  soulj  but  for  the  editor.  It  saves  him  the 
trouble  of  turning  to  page  two./^ 

This  is  a  story  of  Chicago,  which  is  a  first 
cousin  of  New  York,  although  the  two  are  not 
on  chummy  terms.  It  is  a  story  of  that  part  of 
Chicago  which  lies  east  of  Dearborn  Avenue 
and  south  of  Division  Street,  and  which  may  be 
called  the  Nottingham  curtain  district. 

In  the  Nottingham  curtain  district  every  front 
parlor  window  is  embellished  with  a  "Rooms 
With  or  Without  Board"  sign.  The  curtains 
themselves  have  mellowed  from  their  original 
department-store-basement-white  to  a  rich,  deep 
tone  of  Chicago  smoke,  which  has  the  notorious 
London  variety  beaten  by  several  shades.  Block 
after  block  the  two-story-^nd-basement  houses 
stretch,  all  grimy  and  gritty  and  looking  sadly 
down  upon  the  five  square  feet  of  mangy  grass 
forming  the  pitiful  front  yard  of  each.  Now 
and  then  the  monotonous  line  of  front  stoops  is 
broken  by  an  outjutting  basement  delicatessen 
shop.  But  not  often.  The  Nottingham  curtain 
district  does  not  run  heavily  to  delicacies. 


THE  FROG  AND  THE  PUDDLE 

It  is  stronger  on  creamed  cabbage  and  bread 
pudding. 

Up  in  the  third  floor  back  at  Mis'  Buck's 
(elegant  rooms  $2.50  and  up  a  week.  Gents 
preferred)  Gertie  was  brushing  her  hair  for  the 
night.  One  hundred  strokes  with  a  bristle 
brush.  Anyone  who  reads  the  beauty  column 
in  the  newspapers  knows  that.  There  was  some 
thing  heroic  in  the  sight  of  Gertie  brushing  her 
hair  one  hundred  strokes  before  going  to  bed  at 
night.  Only  a  woman  could  understand  her  do 
ing  it. 

Gertie  clerked  downtown  on  State  Street,  in  a 
gents'  glove  department.  A  gents'  glove  depart 
ment  requires  careful  dressing  on  the  part  of  its 
clerks,  and  the  manager,  in  selecting  them,  is  par 
ticular  about  choosing  "lookers,"  with  especial 
attention  to  figure,  hair,  and  finger  nails.  Gertie 
was  a  looker.  Providence  had  taken  care  of 
that.  But  you  cannot  leave  your  hair  and  finger 
nails  to  Providence.  They  demand  coaxing  with 
a  bristle  brush  and  an  orangewood  stick. 
.  Now  clerking,  as  Gertie  would  tell  you,  is 
fierce  on  the  feet.  And  when  your  feet  are  tired 
you  are  tired  all  over.  Gertie's  feet  were  tired 
every  night.  About  eight-thirty  she  longed  to 

[3] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

peel  off  her  clothes,  drop  them  in  a  heap  on  the 
floor,  and  tumble,  unbrushed,  unwashed,  un- 
manicured,  into  bed.  She  never  did  it. 

Things  had  been  particularly  trying  to-night. 
After  washing  out  three  handkerchiefs  and  past 
ing  them  with  practised  hand  over  the  mirror, 
Gertie  had  taken  off  her  shoes  and  discovered 
a  hole  the  size  of  a  silver  quarter  in  the  heel  of 
her  left  stocking.  Gertie  had  a  country-bred 
horror  of  holey  stockings.  She  darned  the  hole, 
yawning,  her  aching  feet  pressed  against  the 
smooth,  cool  leg  of  the  iron  bed.  That  done, 
she  had  had  the  colossal  courage  to  wash  her 
face,  slap  cold  cream  on  it,  and  push  back  the 
cuticle  around  her  nails. 

Seated  huddled  on  the  side  of  her  thin  little 
iron  bed,  Gertie  was  brushing  her  hair  bravely, 
counting  the  strokes  somewhere  in  her  sub-con 
scious  mind  and  thinking  busily  all  the  while  of 
something  else.  Her  brush  rose,  fell,  swept 
downward,  rose,  fell,  rhythmically. 

"Ninety-six,  ninety-seven,  ninety-eight,  ninety 
—  Oh,  darn  it !  What's  the  use  I"  cried  Gertie, 
and  hurled  the  brush  across  the  room  with  a 
crack. 

She  sat  looking  after  it  with  wide,  staring  eyes 

[4] 


THE  FROG  AND  THE  PUDDLE 

until  the  brush  blurred  in  with  the  faded  red 
roses  on  the  carpet  When  she  found  it  doing 
that  she  got  up,  wadded  her  hair  viciously  into 
a  hard  bun  in  the  back  instead  of  braiding  it 
carefully  as  usual,  crossed  the  room  (it  wasn't 
much  of  a  trip),  picked  up  the  brush,  and  stood 
looking  down  at  it,  her  under  lip  caught  between 
her  teeth.  That  is  the  humiliating  part  of  losing 
your  temper  and  throwing  things.  You  have  to 
come  down  to  picking  them  up,  anyway. 

Her  lip  still  held  prisoner,  Gertie  tossed  the 
brush  on  the  bureau,  fastened  her  nightgown  at 
the  throat  with  a  safety  pin,  turned  out  the  gas 
and  crawled  into  bed. 

Perhaps  the  hard  bun  at  the  back  of  her  head 
kept  her  awake.  She  lay  there  with  her  eyes 
wide  open  and  sleepless,  staring  into  the  dark 
ness. 

At  midnight  the  Kid  Next  Door  came  in  whis 
tling,  like  one  unused  to  boarding-house  rules. 
Gertie  liked  him  for  that.  At  the  head  of  the 
stairs  he  stopped  whistling  and  came  softly  into 
his  own  third  floor  back  just  next  to  Gertie's. 
Gertie  liked  him  for  that,  too. 

The  two  rooms  had  been  one  in  the  fashion 
able  days  of  the  Nottingham  curtain  district, 

[si 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

long  before  the  advent  of  Mis'  Buck.  That 
thrifty  lady,  on  coming  into  possession,  had 
caused  a  flimsy  partition  to  be  run  up,  slicing 
the  room  in  twain  and  doubling  its  rental. 

Lying  there  Gertie  could  hear  the  Kid  Next 
Door  moving  about  getting  ready  for  bed  and 
humming  "Every  Little  Movement  Has  a 
Meaning  of  Its  Own"  very  lightly,  under  his 
breath.  He  polished  his  shoes  briskly,  and 
Gertie  smiled  there  in  the  darkness  of  her  own 
room  in  sympathy.  Poor  kid,  he  had  his  beauty 
struggles,  too. 

Gertie  had  never  seen  the  Kid  Next  Door, 
although  he  had  come  four  months  ago.  But 
she  knew  he  wasn't  a  grouch,  because  he  alter 
nately  whistled  and  sang  off-key  tenor  while 
dressing  in  Hie  morning.  She  had  also  discov 
ered  that  his  bed  must  run  along  the  same  wall 
against  which  her  bed  was  pushed.  Gertie  told 
herself  that  there  was  something  almost  immod 
est  about  being  able  to  hear  him  breathing  as  he 
slept.  He  had  tumbled  into  bed  with  a  little 
grunt  of  weariness. 

Gertie  lay  there  another  hour,  staring  into  the 
darkness.  Then  she  began  to  cry  softly,  lying 
on  her  face  with  her  head  between  her  arms. 

[6] 


THE  FROG  AND  THE  PUDDLE 

The  cold  cream  and  the  salt  tears  mingled  and 
formed  a  slippery  paste.  Gertie  wept  on  be 
cause  she  couldn't  help  it.  The  longer  she  wept 
the  more  difficult  her  sobs  became,  until 
finally  they  bordered  on  the  hysterical.  They 
filled  her  lungs  until  they  ached  and  reached 
her  throat  with  a  force  that  jerked  her  head 
back. 

uRap-rap-rap!"  sounded  sharply  from  the 
head  of  her  bed. 

Gertie  stopped  sobbing,  and  her  heart  stopped 
beating.  She  lay  tense  and  still,  listening. 
Everyone  knows  that  spooks  rap  three  times  at 
the  head  of  one's  bed.  It's  a  regular  high-sign 
with  them. 

"Rap-rap-rap!" 

Gertie's  skin  became  goose-flesh,  and  cold- 
water  effects  chased  up  and  down  her  spine. 

"What's  your  trouble  in  there?"  demanded 
an  unspooky  voice  so  near  that  Gertie  jumped. 
"Sick?" 

It  was  the  Kid  Next  Door. 

"N-no,  I'm  not  sick,"  faltered  Gertie,  her 
mouth  close  to  the  wall.  Just  then  a  belated 
sob  that  had  stopped  halfway  when  the  raps  be 
gan  hustled  on  to  join  its  sisters.  It  took  Ger- 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

tie  by  surprise,  and  brought  prompt  response 
from  the  other  side  of  the  wall. 

"I'll  bet  I  scared  you  green.  I  didn't  mean 
to,  but,  on  the  square,  if  you're  feeling  sick,  a 
little  nip  of  brandy  will  set  you  up.  Excuse  my 
mentioning  it,  girlie,  but  I'd  do  the  same  for  my 
sister.  I  hate  like  sin  to  hear  a  woman  suffer 
like,  that,  and,  anyway,  I  don't  know  whether 
your're  fourteen  or  forty,  so  it's  perfectly  re 
spectable.  I'll  get  the  bottle  and  leave  it  out 
side  your  door." 

"No  you  don't!"  answered  Gertie  in  a  hollow 
voice,  praying  meanwhile  that  the  woman  in  the 
room  below  might  be  sleeping.  "I'm  not  sick, 
honestly  I'm  not.  I'm  just  as  much  obliged, 
and  I'm  dead  sorry  I  woke  you  up  with  my  blub 
bering.  I  started  out  with  the  soft  pedal  on,  but 
things  got  away  from  me.  Can  you  hear  me?" 

"Like  a  phonograph.  Sure  you  couldn't  use 
a  sip  of  brandy  where  it'd  do  the  most  good?" 

"Sure." 

"Well,  then,  cut  out  the  weeps  and  get  your 
beauty  sleep,  kid.  He  ain't  worth  sobbing  over, 
anyway,  be!1  eve  me." 

"He!"  snorted  Gertie  indignantly.  "You're 
cold.  There  never  was  anything  in  peg-tops 

[8] 


THE  FROG  AND  THE  PUDDLE 

that  could  make  me  carry  on  like  the  heroine 
of  the  Elsie  series." 

"Lost  your  job?" 

"No  such  luck." 

"Well,  then,  what  in  Sam  Hill  could  make  a 
woman " 

"Lonesome!"  snapped  Gertie.  "And  the 
floorwalker  got  fresh  to-day.  And  I  found  two 
gray  hairs  to-night.  And  I'd  give  my  next 
week's  pay  envelope  to  hear  the  double  click 
that  our  front  gate  gives  back  home." 

"Back  home!"  echoed  the  Kid  Next  Door  in 
a  dangerously  loud  voice.  "Say,  I  want  to  talk 
to  you.  If  you'll  promise  you  won't  get  sore  and 
think  I'm  fresh,  I'll  ask  you  a  favor.  Slip  on  a 
kimono  and  we'll  sneak  down  to  the  front  stoop 
and  talk  it  over.  I'm  as  wide  awake  as  a  chorus 
girl  and  twice  as  hungry.  I've  got  two  apples 
and  a  box  of  crackers.  Are  you  on?" 

Gertie  snickered.  "It  isn't  done  in  our  best 
sets,  but  I'm  on.  I've  got  a  can  of  sardines  and 
an  orange.  I'll  be  ready  in  six  minutes." 

She  was,  too.  She  wiped  off  the  cold  cream 
and  salt  tears  with  a  dry  towel,  did  her  hair  in  a 
schoolgirl  braid  and  tied  it  with  a  big  bow,  and 
dressed  herself  in  a  black  skirt  and  a  baby  blue 

[9] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

dressing  sacque.  The  Kid  Next  Door  was  wait 
ing  outside  in  the  hall.  His  gray  sweater  cov 
ered  a  multitude  of  sartorial  deficiencies.  Gertie 
stared  at  him,  and  he  stared  at  Gertie  in  the 
sickly  blue  light  of  the  boarding-house  hall,  and 
it  took  her  one-half  of  one  second  to  discover 
that  she  liked  his  mouth,  and  his  eyes,  and  the 
way  his  hair  was  mussed. 

"Why,  you're  only  a  kid!"  whispered  the  Kid 
Next  Door,  in  surprise. 

Gertie  smothered  a  laugh.  "You're  not  the 
first  man  that's  been  deceived  by  a  pig-tail  braid 
and  a  baby  blue  waist.  I  could  locate  those 
two  gray  hairs  for  you  with  my  eyes  shut 
and  my  feet  in  a  sack.  Come  on,  boy.  These 
Robert  W.  Chambers  situations  make  me 


nervous." 


Many  earnest  young  writers  with  a  flow  of 
adjectives  and  a  passion  for  detail  have  at 
tempted  to  describe  the  quiet  of  a  great  city  at 
night,  when  a  few  million  people  within  it  are 
sleeping,  or  ought  to  be.  They  work  in  the 
clang  of  a  distant  owl  car,  and  the  roar  of  an 
occasional  "L"  train,  and  the  hollow  echo  of  the 
footsteps  of  the  late  passer-by.  They  go  elabo 
rately  into  description,  and  are  strong  on  the 

[10] 


THE  FROG  AND  THE  PUDDLE 

brooding  hush,  but  the  thing  has  never  been  done 
satisfactorily. 

Gertie,  sitting  on  the  front  stoop  at  two  in 
the  morning,  with  her  orange  in  one  hand  and 
the  sardine  can  in  the  other,  put  it  this  way: 

"If  I  was  to  hear  a  cricket  chirp  now,  I'd 
screech.  This  isn't  really  quiet.  It's  like  wait? 
ing  for  a  cannon  cracker  to  go  off  just  before 
the  fuse  is  burned  down.  The  bang  isn't  there 
yet,  but  you  hear  it  a  hundred  times  in  your  mind 
before  it  happens." 

"My  name's  Augustus  G.  Eddy,"  announced 
the  Kid  Next  Door,  solemnly.  "Back  home 
they  always  called  me  Gus.  You  peel  that 
orange  while  I  unroll  the  top  of  this  sardine 
can.  I'm  guilty  of  having  interrupted  you  in 
the  middle  of  what  the  girls  call  a  good  cry, 
and  I  know  you'll  have  to  get  it  out  of  your  sys 
tem  some  way.  Take  a  bite  of  apple  and  then 
wade  right  in  and  tell  me  what  you're  doing  in 
this  burg  if  you  don't  like  it." 

"This  thing  ought  to  have  slow  music,"  be 
gan  Gertie.  "It's  pathetic.  I  came  to  Chicago 
from  Beloit,  Wisconsin,  because  I  thought  that 
little  town  was  a  lonesome  hole  for  a  vivacious 
creature  like  me.  Lonesome!  Listen  while  I 

[1*3 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

laugh  a  low  mirthless  laugh.  I  didn't  know  any 
thing  about  the  three-ply,  double-barreled,  extra 
heavy  brand  of  lonesomeness  that  a  big  town 
like  this  can  deal  out.  Talk  about  your  desert 
wastes !  They're  sociable  and  snug  compared  to 
this.  I  know  three-fourths  of  the  people  in 
Beloit,  Wisconsin,  by  their  first  names.  I've  lived 
here  six  months  and  I'm  not  on  informal  terms 
with  anybody  except  Teddy,  the  landlady's  dog, 
and  he's  a  trained  rat-and-book-agent  terrier, 
and  not  inclined  to  overfriendliness.  When  I 
clerked  at  the  Enterprise  Store  in  Beloit  the 
women  used  to  come  in  and  ask  for  some 
thing  we  didn't  carry  just  for  an  excuse  to 
copy  the  way  the  lace  yoke  effects  were  planned 
in  my  shirtwaists.  You  ought  to  see  the  way 
those  same  shirtwaists  stack  up  here.  Why,  boy, 
the  lingerie  waists  that  the  other  girls  in  my  de 
partment  wear  make  my  best  hand-tucked  effort 
look  like  a  simple  English  country  blouse. 
They're  so  dripping  with  Irish  crochet  and  real 
Val  and  Cluny  insertions  that  it's  a  wonder  the 
girls  don't  get  stoop-shouldered  carrying  'em 
around." 

"Hold  on  a  minute,"  commanded  Gus.   "This 
thing  is  uncanny.    Our  cases  dovetail  like  the  de- 

[12] 


THE  FROG  AND  THE  PUDDLE 

ductions  in  a  detective  story.  Kneel  here  at  my 
feet,  little  daughter,  and  I'll  tell  you  the  story 
of  my  sad  young  life.  I'm  no  child  of  the  city 
streets,  either.  Say,  I  came  to  this  town  because 
I  thought  there  was  a  bigger  field  for  me  in 
Gents'  Furnishings.  Joke,  what?" 

But  Gertie  didn't  smile.  She  gazed  up  at  Gus, 
and  Gus  gazed  down  at  her,  and  his  fingers  fid 
dled  absently  with  the  big  bow  at  the  end  of  her 
braid. 

"And  isn't  there?"  asked  Gertie,  sympa 
thetically. 

"Girlie,  I  haven't  saved  twelve  dollars  since 
I  came.  I'm  no  tightwad,  and  I  don't  believe 
in  packing  everything  away  into  a  white  marble 
mausoleum,  but  still  a  gink  kind  of  whispers  to 
himself  that  some  day  he'll  be  furnishing  up  a 
kitchen  pantry  of  his  own." 

"Oh!"  said  Gertie. 

"And  let  me  mention  in  passing,"  continued 
Gus,  winding  the  ribbon  bow  around  his  finger, 
"that  in  the  last  hour  or  so  that  whisper  has 
been  swelling  to  a  shout." 

"Oh!"  said  Gertie  again. 

"You  said  it.  But  I  couldn't  buy  a  second 
hand  gas  stove  with  what  I've  saved  in  the  last 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

half-year  here.  Back  home  they  used  to  think  I 
was  a  regular  little  village  John  Drew,  I  was 
so  dressy.  But  here  I  look  like  a  yokel  on  circus 
day  compared  to  the  other  fellows  in  the  store. 
All  they  need  is  a  field  glass  strung  over  their 
shoulder  to  make  them  look  like  a  clothing  ad 
in  the  back  of  a  popular  magazine.  Say,  girlie, 
youVe  got  the  prettiest  hair  I've  seen  since  I 
blew  in  here.  Look  at  that  braid!  Thick  as  a 
rope !  That's  no  relation  to  the  piles  of  jute  that 
the  Flossies  here  stack  on  their  heads.  And 
shines !  Like  satin." 

"It  ought  to,"  said  Gertrude,  wearily.  "I 
brush  it  a  hundred  strokes  every  night.  Some 
times  I'm  so  beat  that  I  fall  asleep  with  my 
brush  in  the  air.  The  manager  won't  stand  for 
any  romping  curls  or  hooks-and-eyes  that  don't 
connect.  It  keeps  me  so  busy  being  beautiful, 
and  what  the  society  writers  call  'well  groomed,' 
that  I  don't  have  time  to  sew  the  buttons  on  my 
underclothes." 

"But  don't  you  get  some  amusement  in  the 
evening?"  marveled  Gus.  "What  was  the  mat 
ter  with  you  and  the  other  girls  in  the  store? 
Can't  you  hit  it  off?" 

"Me?    No.     I  guess  I  was  too  woodsy  for 

[14] 


THE  FROG  AND  THE  PUDDLE 

them.  I  went  out  with  them  a  couple  of  times. 
I  guess  they're  nice  girls  all  right;  but  they've 
got  what  you  call  a  broader  way  of  looking  at 
things  than  I  have.  Living  in  a  little  town  all 
your  life  makes  you  narrow.  These  girls! — 
Well,  maybe  I'll  get  educated  up  to  their  plane 
some  day,  but " 

"No,  you  don't!"  hissed  Gus.  "Not  if  I  can 
help  it." 

"But  you  can't,1'  replied  Gertie,  sweetly. 
"My,  ain't  this  a  grand  night!  Evenings  like 
this  I  used  to  love  to  putter  around  the  yard 
after  supper,  sprinkling  the  grass  and  weeding 
the  radishes.  I'm  the  greatest  kid  to  fool 
around  with  a  hose.  And  flowers!  Say,  they 
just  grow  for  me.  You  ought  to  have  seen  my 
pansies  and  nasturtiums  last  summer." 

The  fingers  of  the  Kid  Next  Door  wan 
dered  until  they  found  Gertie's.  They  clasped 
them. 

"This  thing  just  points  one  way,  little  one. 
It's  just  as  plain  as  a  path  leaing  up  to  a  cozy 
little  three-room  flat  up  here  on  the  North  Side 
somewhere.  See  it  ?  With  me  and  you  married, 
and  playing  at  housekeeping  in  a  parlor  and 
bedroom  and  kitchen?  And  both  of  us  going 

[15] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

down  town  to  work  in  the  morning  just  the  same 
as  we  do  now.  Only  not  the  same,  either." 

"Wake  up,  little  boy,"  said  Gertie,  prying 
her  fingers  away  from  those  other  detaining 
ones.  "I'd  fit  into  a  three-room  flat  like  a  whale 
in  a  kitchen  sink.  I'm  going  back  to  Beloit, 
Wisconsin.  I've  learned  my  lesson  all  right. 
There's  a  fellow  there  waiting  for  me.  I  used 
to  think  he  was  too  slow.  But  say,  he's  got 
the  nicest  little  painting  and  paper-hanging  busi 
ness  you  ever  saw,  and  making  money.  He's 
secretary  of  the  K.  P.'s  back  home.  They  give 
some  swell  little  dances  during  the  winter,  espe 
cially  for  the  married  members.  In  five  years 
we'll  own  our  home,  with  a  vegetable  garden 
in  the  back.  I'm  a  little  frog,  and  it's  me  for 
the  puddle." 

Gus  stood  up  slowly.  Gertie  felt  a  little  pang 
of  compunction  when  she  saw  what  a  boy  he  was. 

"I  don't  know  when  I've  enjoyed  a  talk  like 
this.  I've  heard  about  these  dawn  teas,  but  I 
never  thought  I'd  go  to  one,"  she  said. 

"Good-night,  girlie,"  interrupted  Gus,  ab 
ruptly.  "It's  the  dreamless  couch  for  mine. 
We've  got  a  big  sale  on  in  tan  and  black  seconds 


to-morrow." 


[16] 


II 

THE  MAN  WHO  CAME  BACK 


SPHERE  are  two  ways  of  doing  battle  against 
Disgrace.  You  may  live  it  down;  or  you 
may  run  away  from  it  and  hide.  The  first 
method  is  heart-breaking,  but  sure.  The  second 
cannot  be  relied  upon  because  of  the  uncomfort 
able  way  Disgrace  has  of  turning  up  at  your 
heels  just  when  you  think  you  have  eluded  her  in 
the  last  town  but  one. 

Ted  Terrill  did  not  choose  the  first  method. 
He  had  it  thrust  upon  him.  After  Ted  had 
served  his  term  he  came  back  home  to  visit  his 
mother's  grave,  intending  to  take  the  next  train 
out.  He  wore  none  of  the  prison  pallor  that 
you  read  about  in  books,  because  he  had  been 
shortstop  on  the  penitentiary  all-star  baseball 
team,  and  famed  for  the  dexterity  with  which 
he  jcould  grab  up  red-hot  grounders.  The 
storied  lock  step  and  the  clipped  hair 
effect  also  were  missing.  The  superintendent 
of  Ted's  prison  had  been  one  of  the  reform 
kind. 

[17] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

You  never  would  have  picked  Ted  for  a 
criminal.  He  had  none  of  those  interesting 
phrenological  bumps  and  depressions  that  usu 
ally  are  shown  to  such  frank  advantage  in  the 
Bertillon  photographs.  Ted  had  been  assistant 
cashier  in  the  Citizens'  National  Bank.  In  a  mad 
moment  he  had  attempted  a  little  sleight-of- 
hand  act  in  which  certain  Citizens'  National 
funds  were  to  be  transformed  into  certain  glit 
tering  shares  and  back  again  so  quickly  that  the 
examiners  couldn't  follow  it  with  their  eyes. 
But  Ted  was  unaccustomed  to  these  now-you-see- 
it-and-now-you-don't  feats  and  his  hand  slipped. 
The  trick  dropped  to  the  floor  with  an  awful 
clatter. 

Ted  had  been  a  lovable  young  kid,  six  feet 
high,  and  blonde,  with  a  great  reputation  as  a 
dresser.  He  had  the  first  yellow  plush  hat  in 
our  town.  It  sat  on  his  golden  head  like  a  halo. 
The  women  all  liked  Ted.  Mrs.  Dankworth, 
the  dashing  widow  (why  will  widows  persist  in 
being  dashing?),  said  that  he  was  the  only  man 
in  our  town  who  knew  how  to  wear  a  dress  suit. 
The  men  were  forever  slapping  him  on  the  back 
and  asking  him  to  have  a  little  something.  Ted's 
good  looks  and  his  clever  tongue  and  a  certain 
[18] 


THE  MAN  WHO  CAME  BACK 

charming  Irish  way  he  had  with  him  caused 
him  to  be  taken  up  by  the  smart  set.  Now,  if 
you've  never  lived  in  a  small  town  you  will  be 
much  amused  at  the  idea  of  its  boasting  a  smart 
set.  Which  proves  your  ignorance.  The  small 
town  smart  set  is  deadly  serious  about  its  smart 
ness.  It  likes  to  take  six-hour  runs  down  to  the 
city  to  fit  a  pair  of  shoes  and  hear  Caruso.  Its 
clothes  are  as  well  made,  and  its  scandals  as 
crisp,  and  its  pace  as  hasty,  and  its  golf  club  as 
dull  as  the  clothes,  and  scandals,  and  pace,  and 
golf  club  of  its  city  cousins. 

The  hasty  pace  killed  Ted.  He  tried  to  keep 
step  in  a  set  of  young  folks  whose  fathers  had 
made  our  town.  And  all  the  time  his  pocket- 
book  was  yelling,  "Whoa !"  The  young  people 
ran  largely  to  scarlet-upholstered  touring  cars, 
and  country-club  doings,  and  house  parties,  as 
small  town  younger  generations  are  apt  to. 
When  Ted  went  to  high  school  half  the  boys  in 
his  little  clique  spent  their  after-school  hours 
dashing  up  and  down  Main  street  in  their  big, 
glittering  cars,  sitting  slumped  down  on  the  mid 
dle  of  their  spines  in  front  of  the  steering  wheel, 
their  sleeves  rolled  up,  their  hair  combed  a  mili 
tant  pompadour.  One  or  the  other  of  them  al- 

[19] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

ways  took  Ted  along.  It  is  fearfully  easy  to  de 
velop  a  taste  for  that  kind  of  thing.  As  he  grew 
older,  the  taste  took  root  and  became  a  habit. 

Ted  came  out  after  serving  his  term,  still 
handsome,  spite  of  all  that  story-writers  may 
have  taught  to  the  contrary.  But  we'll  make  this 
concession  to  the  old  tradition.  There  was  a 
difference.  His  radiant  blondeur  was  dimmed 
in  some  intangible,  elusive  way.  Birdie  Calla- 
han,  who  had  worked  in  Ted's  mother's  kitchen 
for  years,  and  who  had  gone  back  to  her  old 
job  at  the  Haley  House  after  her  mistress's 
death,  put  it  sadly,  thus: 

"He  was  always  th'  han'some  divil.  I  used  to 
look  forward  to  ironin7  day  just  for  the  pleasure 
of  pressin'  his  fancy  shirts  for  him.  I'm  that 
partial  to  them  swell  blondes.  But  I  dinnaw, 
he's  changed.  Doin'  time  has  taken  the  edge 
off  his  hair  an'  complexion.  Not  changed  his 
color,  do  yuh  mind,  but  dulled  it,  like  a  gold 
ring,  or  the  like,  that  has  tarnished." 

Ted  was  seated  in  the  smoker,  with  a  chip  on 
his  shoulder,  and  a  sick  horror  of  encountering 
some  one  he  knew  in  his  heart,  when  Jo  Haley, 
of  the  Haley  House,  got  on  at  Westport,  home 
ward  bound.  Jo  Haley  is  the  most  eligible 

[20] 


THE  MAN  WHO  CAME  BACK 

bachelor  in  our  town,  and  the  slipperiest.  He 
has  made  the  Haley  House  a  gem,  so  that  trav 
eling  men  will  cut  half  a  dozen  towns  to  Sun 
day  there.  If  he  should  say  "Jump  through 
this!"  to  any  girl  in  our  town  she'd  jump. 

Jo  Haley  strolled  leisurely  up  the  car  aisle  to 
ward  Ted.  Ted  saw  him  coming  and  sat  very 
still,  waiting. 

"Hello,  Ted!  How's  Ted?"  said  Jo  Haley, 
casually.  And  dropped  into  the  adjoining  seat 
without  any  more  fuss. 

Ted  wet  his  lips  slightly  and  tried  to  say 
something.  He  had  been  a  breezy  talker.  But 
the  words  would  not  come.  Jo  Haley  made  no 
effort  to  cover  the  situation  with  a  rush  of  con 
versation.  He  did  not  seem  to  realize  that  there 
was  any  situation  to  cover.  He  champed  the  end 
of  his  cigar  and  handed  one  to  Ted. 

"Well,  youVe  taken  your  lickin',  kid.  What 
you  going  to  do  now?" 

The  rawness  of  it  made  Ted  wince.  "Oh,  I 
don't  know,"  he  stammered.  "I've  a  job  half 
promised  in  Chicago." 

"What  doing?" 

Ted  laughed  a  short  and  ugly  laugh.  "Driv 
ing  a  brewery  auto  truck." 

[21] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

Jo  Haley  tossed  his  cigar  dexterously  to  the 
opposite  corner  of  his  mouth  and  squinted 
thoughtfully  along  its  bulging  sides. 

"Remember  that  Wenzel  girl  that's  kept 
books  for  me  for  the  last  six  years  ?  She's  leav 
ing  in  a  couple  of  months  to  marry  a  New  York 
guy  that  travels  for  ladies'  cloaks  and  suits. 
After  she  goes  it's  nix  with  the  lady  bookkeepers 
for  me.  Not  that  Minnie  isn't  a  good,  straight 
girl,  and  honest,  but  no  girl  can  keep  books  with 
one  eye  on  a  column  of  figures  and  the  other  on 
a  traveling  man  in  a  brown  suit  and  a  red  neck 
tie,  unless  she's  cross-eyed,  and  you  bet  Minnie 
ain't.  The  job's  yours  if  you  want  it.  Eighty 
a  month  to  start  on,  and  board." 

"I — can't,  Jo.  Thanks  just  the  same.  I'm 
going  to  try  to  begin  all  over  again,  somewhere 
else,  where  nobody  knows  me." 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Jo.  "I  knew  a  fellow  that 
did  that.  After  he  came  out  he  grew  a  beard, 
and  wore  eyeglasses,  and  changed  his  name. 
Had  a  quick,  crisp  way  of  talkin',  and  he  culti 
vated  a  drawl  and  went  west  and  started  in  busi 
ness.  Real  estate,  I  think.  Anyway,  the  second 
month  he  was  there  in  walks  a  fool  he  used  to 
know  and  bellows:  'Why  if  it  ain't  Bill!  Hello, 

[22] 


THE  MAN  WHO  CAME  BACK 

Bill !  I  thought  you  was  doing  time  yet.'  That 
was  enough.  Ted,  you  can  black  your  face,  and 
dye  your  hair,  and  squint,  and  some  fine  day, 
sooner  or  later,  somebody'll  come  along  and  blab 
the  whole  thing.  And  say,  the  older  it  gets  the 
worse  it  sounds,  when  it  does  come  out.  Stick 
around  here  where  you  grew  up,  Ted." 

Ted  clasped  and  unclasped  his  hands  uncom 
fortably.  "I  can't  figure  out  why  you  should 
care  how  I  finish." 

"No  reason,"  answered  Jo.  "Not  a  darned 
one.  I  wasn't  ever  in  love  with  your  ma,  like 
the  guy  on  the  stage;  and  I  never  owed  your 
pa  a  cent.  So  it  ain't  a  guilty  conscience.  I 
guess  it's  just  pure  cussedness,  and  a  hankerin' 
for  a  new  investment.  I'm  curious  to  know 
how'll  you  turn  out.  You've  got  the  makin's  of 
what  the  newspapers  call  a  Leading  Citizen, 
.even  if  you  did  fall  down  once.  If  I'd  ever  had 
time  to  get  married,  which  I  never  will  have, 
a  first-class  hotel  bein'  more  worry  and  expense 
than  a  Pittsburg  steel  magnate's  whole  harem, 
I'd  have  wanted  somebody  to  do  the  same  for 
my  kid.  That  sounds  slushy,  but  it's  straight." 

"I  don't  seem  to  know  how  to  thank  you,"  be 
gan  Ted,  a  little  husky  as  to  voice. 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

"Call  around  to-morrow  morning,"  inter 
rupted  Jo  Haley,  briskly,  "and  Minnie  Wenzel 
will  show  you  the  ropes.  You  and  her  can  work 
together  for  a  couple  of  months.  After  then 
she's  leaving  to  make  her  underwear,  and  that. 
I  should  think  she'd  have  a  bale  of  it  by  this 
time.  Been  embroidering  them  shimmy  things 
and  lunch  cloths  back  of  the  desk  when  she 
thought  I  wasn't  lookin'  for  the  last  six  months." 

Ted  came  down  next  morning  at  8  A.M.  with 
his  nerve  between  his  teeth  and  the  chip  still 
balanced  lightly  on  his  shoulder.  Five  minutes 
later  Minnie  Wenzel  knocked  it  off.  When  Jo 
Haley  introduced  the  two  jocularly,  knowing 
that  they  had  originally  met  in  the  First  Reader 
room,  Miss  Wenzel  acknowledged  the  introduc 
tion  icily  by  lifting  her  left  eyebrow  slightly  and 
drawing  down  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  Her 
air  of  hauteur  was  a  triumph,  considering 
that  she  was  handicapped  by  black  sateen 
sleevelets. 

I  wonder  how  one  could  best  describe  Miss 
Wenzel?  There  is  one  of  her  in  every  small 
town.  Let  me  think  (business  of  hand  on 
brow).  Well,  she  always  paid  eight  dollars  for 
her  corsets  when  most  girls  in  a  similar  position 


THE  MAN  WHO  CAME  BACK 

got  theirs  for  fifty-nine  cents  in  the  basement. 
Nature  had  been  kind  to  her.  The  hair  that 
had  been  a  muddy  brown  in  Minnie's  schoolgirl 
days  it  had  touched  with  a  magic  red-gold  wand. 
Birdie  Callahan  always  said  that  Minnie  was 
working  only  to  wear  out  her  old  clothes. 

After  the  introduction  Miss  Wenzel  followed 
Jo  Haley  into  the  lobby.  She  took  no  pains  to 
lower  her  voice. 

"Well  I  must  say,  Mr.  Haley,  youVe  got  a 
fine  nerve !  If  my  gentleman  friend  was  to  hear 
of  my  working  with  an  ex-con  I  wouldn't  be  sur 
prised  if  he'd  break  off  the  engagement.  I 
should  think  you'd  have  some  respect  for  the 
feelings  of  a  lady  with  a  name  to  keep  up,  and 
engaged  to  a  swell  fellow  like  Mr.  Schwartz." 

"Say,  listen,  m'  girl,"  replied  Jo  Haley. 
"The  law  don't  cover  all  the  tricks.  But  if 
stuffing  an  order  was  a  criminal  offense  I'll  bet 
your  swell  traveling  man  would  be  doing  a  life 
term." 

Ted  worked  that  day  with  his  teeth  set  so  that 
his  jaws  ached  next  morning.  Minnie  Wenzel 
spoke  to  him  only  when  necessary  and  then  in 
terms  of  dollars  and  cents.  When  dinner  time 
came  she  divested  herself  of  the  black  sateen 

[25] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

sleevelets,  wriggled  from  the  shoulders  down  a 
la  Patricia  O'Brien,  produced  a  chamois  skin, 
and  disappeared  in  the  direction  of  the  wash 
room.  Ted  waited  until  the  dining-room  was 
almost  deserted.  Then  he  went  in  to  dinner 
alone.  Some  one  in  white  wearing  an  absurd  lit 
tle  pocket  handkerchief  of  an  apron  led  him  to 
a  seat  in  a  far  corner  of  the  big  room.  Ted  did 
not  lift  his  eyes  higher  than  the  snowy  square  of 
the  apron.  The  Apron  drew  out  a  chair,  shoved 
it  under  Ted's  knees  in  the  way  Aprons  have, 
and  thrust  a  printed  menu  at  him. 

uRoast  beef,  medium,"  said  Ted,  without 
looking  up. 

"Bless  your  heart,  yuh  ain't  changed  a  bit.  I 
remember  how  yuh  used  to  jaw  when  it  was  too 
well  done,"  said  the  Apron,  fondly. 

Ted's  head  came  up  with  a  jerk. 

"So  yuh  will  cut  yer  old  friends,  is  it?" 
grinned  Birdie  Callahan.  "If  this  wasn't  a  pub 
lic  dining-room  maybe  yuh'd  shake  hands  with  a 
poor  but  proud  workin'  girrul.  Yer  as  good 
lookin'  a  divil  as  ever,  Mister  Ted." 

Ted's  hand  shot  out  and  grasped  hers. 
"Birdie !  I  could  weep  on  your  apron !  I  never 
was  so  glad  to  see  any  one  in  my  life.  Just  to 

[26] 


THE  MAN  WHO  CAME  BACK 

look  at  you  makes  me  homesick.  What  In  Sam 
Hill  are  you  doing  here?" 

"Waitin'.  After  yer  ma  died,  seemed  like  I 
didn't  care  t'  work  fer  no  other  privit  fam'ly, 
so  I  came  back  here  on  my  old  job.  I'll  bet  I'm 
the  homeliest  head  waitress  in  captivity." 

Ted's  nervous  fingers  were  pleating  the 
tablecloth.  His  voice  sank  to  a  whisper. 
"Birdie,  tell  me  the  God's  truth.  Did  those 
three  years  cause  her  death?" 

"Niver!"  lied  Birdie.  "I  was  with  her  to  the 
end.  It  started  with  a  cold  on  th'  chest.  Have 
some  French  fried  with  yer  beef,  Mr.  Teddy, 
They're  illigent  to-day." 

Birdie  glided  off  to  the  kitchen.  Authors  are 
fond  of  the  word  uglide."  But  you  can  take  it 
literally  this  time.  Birdie  had  a  face  that  looked 
like  a  huge  mistake,  but  she  walked  like  a  pan 
ther,  and  they're  said  to  be  the  last  cry  as  gliders. 
She  walked  with  her  chin  up  and  her  hips  firm. 
That  comes  from  juggling  trays.  You  have  to 
walk  like  that  to  keep  your  nose  out  of  the  soup. 
After  a  while  the  walk  becomes  a  habit.  Any 
seasoned  dining-room  girl  could  give  lessons  in 
walking  to  the  Delsarte  teacher  of  an  Eastern 
finishing  school. 

[27] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

From  the  day  that  Birdie  Callahan  served 
Ted  with  the  roast  beef  medium  and  the  elegant 
French  fried,  she  appointed  herself  monitor 
over  his  food  and  clothes  and  morals.  I  wish 
I  could  find  words  to  describe  his  bitter  loneli 
ness.  He  did  not  seek  companionship.  The 
men,  although  not  directly  avoiding  him,  seemed 
somehow  to  have  pressing  business  whenever 
they  happened  in  his  vicinity.  The  women  ig 
nored  him.  Mrs.  Dankworth,  still  dashing  and 
still  widowed,  passed  Ted  one  day  and  looked 
fixedly  at  a  point  one  inch  above  his  head.  In  a 
town  like  ours  the  Haley  House  is  like  a  big, 
hospitable  clubhouse.  The  men  drop  in  there 
the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  and  the  last  thing 
at  night,  to  hear  the  gossip  and  buy  a  cigar  and 
jolly  the  girl  at  the  cigar  counter.  Ted  spoke  to 
them  when  they  spoke  to  him.  He  began  to  de 
velop  a  certain  grim  line  about  the  mouth.  Jo 
Haley  watched  him  from  afar,  and  the  longer 
he  watched  the  kinder  and  more  speculative 
grew  the  look  in  his  eyes.  And  slowly  and 
surely  there  grew  in  the  hearts  of  our  towns 
people  a  certain  new  respect  and  admiration  for 
this  boy  who  was  fighting  his  fight. 

Ted  got  into  the  habit  of  taking  his  meals 

[28] 


THE  MAN  WHO  CAME  BACK 

late,  so  that  Birdie  Callahan  could  take  the  time 
to  talk  to  him. 

"Birdie,"  he  said  one  day,  when  she  brought 
his  soup,  "do  you  know  that  you're  the  only  de 
cent  woman  who'll  talk  to  me?  Do  you  know 
what  I  mean  when  I  say  that  I'd  give  the  rest  of 
my  life  if  I  could  just  put  my  head  in  my 
mother's  lap  and  have  her  muss  up  my  hair  and 
call  me  foolish  names?" 

Birdie  Callahan  cleared  her  throat  and  said 
abruptly:  "I  was  noticin'  yesterday  your  gray 
pants  needs  pressin'  bad.  Bring  'em  down  to 
morrow  mornin'  and  I'll  give  'em  th'  elegant 
crease  in  the  laundry." 

So  the  first  weeks  went  by,  and  the  two 
months  of  Miss  Wenzel's  stay  came  to  an  end. 
Ted  thanked  his  God  and  tried  hard  not  to  wish 
that  she  was  a  man  so  that  he  could  punch  her 
head. 

The  day  before  the  time  appointed  for  her 
departure  she  was  closeted  with  Jo  Haley  for  a 
long,  long  time.  When  finally  she  emerged  a 
bellboy  lounged  up  to  Ted  with  a  message. 

"Wenzel  says  th'  Old  Man  wants  t'  see  you. 
'S  in  his  office.  Say,  Mr.  Terrill,  do  yuh  think 
they  can  play  to-day  ?  It's  pretty  wet." 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

Jo  Haley  was  sunk  in  the  depths  of  his  big 
leather  chair.  He  did  not  look  up  as  Ted  en 
tered.  "Sit  down,"  he  said.  Ted  sat  down  and 
waited,  puzzled. 

uAs  a  wizard  at  figures,"  mused  Jo  Haley 
at  last,  softly  as  though  to  himself,  "I'm  a  frost. 
A  column  of  figures  on  paper  makes  my  head 
swim.  But  I  can  carry  a  whole  regiment  of  'em 
in  my  head.  I  know  every  time  the  barkeeper 
draws  one  in  the  dark.  I've  been  watchin' 
this  thing  for  the  last  two  weeks  hopin' 
you'd  quit  and  come  and  tell  me."  He  turned 
suddenly  and  faced  Ted.  "Ted,  old  kid," 
he  said  sadly,  "what'n'ell  made  you  do  it 
again?" 

"What's  the  joke?"  asked  Ted. 

"Now,  Ted,"  remonstrated  Jo  Haley,  "that 
way  of  talkin'  won't  help  matters  none.  As  I 
said,  I'm  rotten  at  figures.  But  you're  the  first 
investment  that  ever  turned  out  bad,  and  let  me 
tell  you  I've  handled  some  mighty  bad  smelling 
ones.  Why,  kid,  if  you  had  just  come  to  me  on 
the  quiet  and  asked  for  the  loan  of  a  hundred  or 
so  why " 

"What's  the  joke,  Jo?"  said  Ted  again, 
slowly. 

[30] 


THE  MAN  WHO  CAME  BACK 

"This  ain't  my  notion  of  a  joke,"  came  the 
terse  answer.  "We're  three  hundred  short." 

The  last  vestige  of  Ted  Terrill's  old-time  ra 
diance  seemed  to  flicker  and  die,  leaving  him 
ashen  and  old. 

"Short?"  he  repeated.  Then,  "My  God!"  in 
a  strangely  colorless  voice — "My  Godl"  He 
looked  down  at  his  fingers  impersonally,  as 
though  they  belonged  to  some  one  else.  Then 
his  hand  clutched  Jo  Haley's  arm  with  the  grip 
of  fear.  "Jo!  Jo!  That's  the  thing  that  has 
haunted  me  day  and  night,  till  my  nerves  are 
raw.  The  fear  of  doing  it  again.  Don't  laugh 
at  me,  will  you  ?  I  used  to  lie  awake  nights  go 
ing  over  that  cursed  business  of  the  bank — over 
and  over — till  the  cold  sweat  would  break  out  all 
over  me.  I  used  to  figure  it  all  out  again,  step 
by  step,  until — Jo,  could  a  man  steal  and  not 
know  it?  Could  thinking  of  a  thing  like  that 
drive  a  man  crazy?  Because  if  it  could — if  it 
could — then " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Jo  Haley,  "but  it  sounds 
darned  fishy."  He  had  a  hand  on  Ted's  shak 
ing  shoulder,  and  was  looking  into  the  white, 
drawn  face.  "I  had  great  plans  for  you,  Ted. 
But  Minnie  Wenzel's  got  it  all  down  on  slips  of 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

paper.  I  might  as  well  call  her  in  again,  and 
we'll  have  the  whole  blamed  thing  out." 

Minnie  Wenzel  came.  In  her  hand  were  slips 
of  paper,  and  books  with  figures  in  them,  and 
Ted  looked  and  saw  things  written  in  his  own 
hand  that  should  not  have  been  there.  And  he 
covered  his  shamed  face  with  his  two  hands  and 
gave  thanks  that  his  mother  was  dead. 

There  came  three  sharp  raps  at  the  office  door. 
The  tense  figures  within  jumped  nervously. 

"Keep  out!"  called  Jo  Haley,  "whoever  you 
are."  Whereupon  the  door  opened  and  Birdie 
Callahan  breezed  in. 

"Get  out,  Birdie  Callahan,"  roared  Jo. 
"You're  in  the  wrong  pew." 

Birdie  closed  the  door  behind  her  com 
posedly  and  came  farther  into  the  room.  "Pete 
th'  pasthry  cook  just  tells  me  that  Minnie  Wen 
zel  told  th'  day  clerk,  who  told  the  barkeep, 
who  told  th'  janitor,  who  told  th'  chef,  who 
told  Pete,  that  Minnie  had  caught  Ted  stealin' 
some  three  hundred  dollars." 

Ted  took  a  quick  step  forward.  "Birdie,  for 
Heaven's  sake  keep  out  of  this.  You  can't  make 
things  any  better.  You  may  believe  in  me, 
but " 

[32] 


THE  MAN  WHO  CAME  BACK 

"Where's  the  money?"  asked  Birdie. 

Ted  stared  at  her  a  moment,  his  mouth  open 
ludicrously. 

"Why — I — don't — know,"  he  articulated, 
painfully.  "I  never  thought  of  that." 

Birdie  snorted  defiantly.  UI  thought  so. 
D'ye  know,"  sociably,  "I  was  visitin'  with  my 
aunt  Mis'  Mulcahy  last  evenin'." 

There  was  a  quick  rustle  of  silks  from  Minnie 
Wenzel's  direction. 

"Say,  look  here "  began  Jo  Haley,  impa 
tiently. 

"Shut  up,  Jo  Haley!"  snapped  Birdie.  "As 
I  was  sayin',  I  was  visitin'  with  my  aunt  Mis' 
Mulcahy.  She  does  fancy  washin'  an'  ironin' 
for  the  swells.  An'  Minnie  Wenzel,  there  bein' 
none  sweller,  hires  her  to  do  up  her  weddin' 
linens.  Such  smears  av  hand  embridery  an' 
Irish  crochet  she  never  see  th'  likes,  Mis'  Mul 
cahy  says,  and  she's  seen  a  lot.  And  as  a  special 
treat  to  the  poor  owld  soul,  why  Minnie  Wen 
zel  lets  her  see  some  av  her  weddin'  clo'es. 
There  never  yet  was  a  woman  who  cud  resist 
showin'  her  weddin'  things  to  every  other 
woman  she  cud  lay  hands  on.  Well,  Mis'  Mul 
cahy,  she  see  that  grand  trewsow  and  she  said 

[33] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

she  never  saw  th'  beat.  Dresses!  Well,  her 
going  away  suit  alone  comes  to  eighty  dollars, 
for  it's  bein'  made  by  Molkowsky,  the  little  Po 
lish  tailor.  An'  her  weddin'  dress  is  satin,  do 
yuh  mind !  Oh,  it  was  a  real  treat  for  my  aunt 
Mis'  Mulcahy." 

Birdie  walked  over  to  where  Minnie  Wenzel 
sat,  very  white  and  still,  and  pointed  a  stubby 
red  finger  in  her  face.  "  'Tis  the  grand  man 
ager  ye  are,  Miss  Wenzel,  gettin'  satins  an' 
tailor-mades  on  yer  salary.  It  takes  a  woman, 
Minnie  Wenzel,  to  see  through  a  woman's 
thricks." 

"Well  I'll  be  dinged!"  exploded  Jo  Haley. 

"Yuh'd  better  be!"  retorted  Birdie  Callahan. 

Minnie  Wenzel  stood  up,  her  lip  caught  be 
tween  her  teeth. 

"Am  I  to  understand,  Jo  Haley,  that  you  dare 
to  accuse  me  of  taking  your  filthy  money,  in 
stead  of  that  miserable  ex-con  there  who  has 
done  time?" 

"That'll  do,  Minnie,"  said  Jo  Haley,  gently. 
"That's  a-plenty." 

"Prove  it,"  went  on  Minnie,  and  then  looked 
as  though  she  wished  she  hadn't. 

"A  business  college  edjication  is  a  grand  foine 

[34] 


THE  MAN  WHO  CAME  BACK 

thing,"  observed  Birdie.  "Miss  Wenzel  is  a 
graduate  av  wan.  They  teach  you  everything 
from  drawin'  birds  with  tail  feathers  to  plain 
and  fancy  penmanship.  In  fact,  they  teach 
everything  in  the  writin'  line  except  forgery,  an1 
I  ain't  so  sure  they  haven't  got  a  coorse  in  that." 

"I  don't  care,"  whimpered  Minnie  Wenzel 
suddenly,  sinking  in  a  limp  heap  on  the  floor. 
"I  had  to  do  it.  I'm  marrying  a  swell  fellow 
and  a  girl's  got  to  have  some  clothes  that  don't 
look  like  a  Bird  Center  dressmaker's  work.  He's 
got  three  sisters.  I  saw  their  pictures  and 
they're  coming  to  the  wedding.  They're  the 
kind  that  wear  low-necked  dresses  in  the  even 
ing,  and  have  their  hair  and  nails  done  down 
town.  I  haven't  got  a  thing  but  my  looks. 
Could  I  go  to  New  York  dressed  like  a  rube? 
On  the  square,  Jo,  I  worked  here  six  years  and 
never  took  a  sou.  But  things  got  away  from 
me.  The  tailor  wouldn't  finish  my  suit  unless  I 
paid  him  fifty  dollars  down.  I  only  took  fifty 
at  first,  intending  to  pay  it  back.  Honest  to 
goodness,  Jo,  I  did." 

"Cut  it  out,"  said  Jo  Haley,  "and  get  up.  I 
was  going  to  give  you  a  check  for  your  wed 
ding,  though  I  hadn't  counted  on  no  three  hun- 

[35] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

dred.  We'll  call  it  square.  And  I  hope  you'll 
be  happy,  but  I  don't  gamble  on  it.  You'll  be 
goin'  through  your  man's  pants  pockets  before 
you're  married  a  year.  You  can  take  your  hat 
and  fade.  I'd  like  to  know  how  I'm  ever  going 
to  square  this  thing  with  Ted  and  Birdie." 

uAn'  me  standin'  here  gassin'  while  them  fool 
girls  in  the  dinin'-room  can't  set  a  table  decent, 
and  dinner  in  less  than  ten  minutes,"  cried 
Birdie,  rushing  off.  Ted  mumbled  something 
unintelligible  and  was  after  her. 

"Birdie !     I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"Say  it  quick  then,"  said  Birdie,  over  her 
shoulder.  "The  doors  open  in  three  minnits." 

"I  can't  tell  you  how  grateful  I  am.  This  is 
no  place  to  talk  to  you.  Will  you  let  me  walk 
home  with  you  to-night  after  your  work's 
done?" 

"Will  I?"  said  Birdie,  turning  to  face  him. 
"I  will  not.  Th'  swell  mob  has  shook  you,  an' 
a  good  thing  it  is.  You  was  travelin'  with  a 
bunch  of  racers,  when  you  was  only  built  for 
medium  speed.  Now  you're  got  your  chance  to 
a  fresh  start  and  don't  you  ever  think  I'm  going 
to  be  the  one  to  let  you  spoil  it  by  beginnin'  to 
walk  out  with  a  dinin'-room  Lizzie  like  me." 

[36] 


THE  MAN  WHO  CAME  BACK 

"Don't  say  that,  Birdie,"  Ted  put  in. 

"It's  the  truth,"  affirmed  Birdie.  "Not  that 
I  ain't  a  perfec'ly  respectable  girrul,  and  ye 
know  it.  I'm  a  good  slob,  but  folks  would  be 
tickled  for  the  chance  to  say  that  you  had  no 
body  to  go  with  but  the  likes  av  me.  If  I  was 
to  let  you  walk  home  with  me  to-night,  yuh 
might  be  askin'  to  call  next  week.  Inside  half  a 
year,  if  yuh  was  lonesome  enough,  yuh'd  ask  me 
to  marry  yuh.  And  b'gorra,"  she  said  softly, 
looking  down  at  her  unlovely  red  hands,  "I'm 
dead  scared  I'd  do  it.  Get  back  to  work,  Ted 
Terrill,  and  hold  yer  head  up  high,  and  when 
yuh  say  your  prayers  to-night,  thank  your  lucky 
stars  I  ain't  a  hussy." 


[37] 


Ill 

WHAT  SHE  WORE 

GOMEWHERE  in  your  story  you  must  pause 
to  describe  your  heroine's  costume.  It  is  a 
ticklish  task.  The  average  reader  likes  his  hero 
ine  well  dressed.  He  is  not  satisfied  with  know 
ing  that  she  looked  like  a  tall,  fair  lily.  He 
wants  to  be  told  that  her  gown  was  of  green 
crepe,  with  lace  ruffles  that  swirled  at  her  feet. 
Writers  used  to  go  so  far  as  to  name  the  dress 
maker;  and  it  was  a  poor  kind  of  a  heroine  who 
didn't  wear  a  red  velvet  by  Worth.  But  that  has 
teen  largely  abandoned  in  these  days  of  com 
missions.  Still,  when  the  heroine  goes  out  on  the 
terrace  to  spoon  after  dinner  (a  quaint  old  Eng 
lish  custom  for  the  origin  of  which  see  any  novel 
by  the  "Duchess,"  page  179)  the  average  reader 
wants  to  know  what  sort  of  a  filmy  wrap  she 
snatches  up  on  the  way  out.  He  demands  a  de 
scription,  with  as  many  illustrations  as  the  pub 
lisher  will  stand  for,  of  what  she  wore  from  the 
bedroom  to  the  street,  with  full  stops  for  the 
ribbons  on  her  robe  de  nmt>  and  the  buckles  on 

[38] 


WHAT  SHE  WORE 

her  ballroom  slippers.  Half  the  poor  creatures 
one  sees  flattening  their  noses  against  the  shop 
windows  are  authors  getting  a  line  on  the  ad 
vance  fashions.  Suppose  a  careless  writer  were 
to  dress  his  heroine  in  a  full-plaited  skirt  only 
to  find,  when  his  story  is  published  four  months 
later,  that  full-plaited  skirts  have  been  relegated 
to  the  dim  past! 

I  started  to  read  a  story  once.  It  was  a  good 
one.  There  was  in  it  not  a  single  allusion  to 
brandy-and-soda,  or  divorce,  or  the  stock  mar 
ket.  The  dialogue  crackled.  The  hero  talked 
like  a  live  man.  It  was  a  shipboard  story,  and 
the  heroine  was  charming  so  long  as  she  wore 
her  heavy  ulster.  But  along  toward  evening  she 
blossomed  forth  in  a  yellow  gown,  with  a  scarlet 
poinsettia  at  her  throat.  I  quit  her  cold.  No 
body  ever  wore  a  scarlet  poinsettia;  or  if  they 
did,  they  couldn't  wear  it  on  a  yellow  gown.  Or 
if  they  did  wear  it  with  a  yellow  gown,  they 
didn't  wear  it  at  the  throat.  Scarlet  poinsettias 
aren't  worn,  anyhow.  To  this  day  I  don't  know 
whether  the  heroine  married  the  hero  or  jumped 
overboard. 

You  see,  jone  can't  be  too  careful  about  cloth 
ing  one's  heroine. 

[39] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

I  hesitate  to  describe  Sophy  Epstein's  dress. 
You  won't  like  it.  In  the  first  place,  it  was  cut 
too  low,  front  and  back,  for  a  shoe  clerk  in  a 
downtown  loft.  It  was  a  black  dress,  near-prin 
cess  in  style,  very  tight  as  to  fit,  very  short  as  to 
skirt,  very  sleazy  as  to  material.  It  showed  all 
the  delicate  curves  of  Sophy's  under-fed,  girlish 
body,  and  Sophy  didn't  care  a  bit.  Its  most  ob 
jectionable  feature  was  at  the  throat.  Collarless 
gowns  were  in  vogue.  Sophy's  daring  shears 
had  gone  a  snip  or  two  farther.  They  had 
cut  a  startlingly  generous  V.  To  say  that 
the  dress  was  elbow-sleeved  is  superfluous.  I 
have  said  that  Sophy  clerked  in  a  downtown 
loft. 

Sophy  sold  "sample"  shoes  at  two-fifty  a  pair, 
and  from  where  you  were  standing  you  thought 
they  looked  just  like  the  shoes  that  were  sold  in 
the  regular  shops  for  six.  [When  Sophy  sat  on 
one  of  the  low  benches  at  the  feet  of  some  cus 
tomer,  tugging  away  at  a  refractory  shoe  for  a 
would-be  small  foot,  her  shameless  little  gown 
exposed  more  than  it  should  have.  But  few  pf  f 
Sophy's  customers  were  Ishocked.  They  were 
mainly  chorus  girls  and  ladies  of  doubtful  com 
plexion  in  search  of  cheap  and  ultra  footgear, 

[40] 


WHAT  SHE  WORE 

/  and — to  use  a  health  term — hardened  by  ex 
posure  • 

Have  I  told  you  how  pretty  she  was?  She 
was  so  pretty  that  you  immediately  forgave  her 
the  indecency  of  her  pitiful  little  gown.  She 
was  pretty  in  a  daringly  demure  fashion,  like  a 
wicked  little  Puritan,  or  a  poverty-stricken  Cleo 
de  Merode,  with  her  smooth  brown  hair  parted 
in  the  middle,  drawn  severely  down  over  her 
ears,  framing  the  lovely  oval  of  her  face  and 
ending  in  a  simple  coil  at  the  neck.  Some  ser 
pent's  wisdom  had  told  Sophy  to  eschew  puffs. 
But  I  think  her  prettiness  could  have  triumphed 
even  over  those. 

If  Sophy's  boss  had  been  any  other  sort  of 
man  he  would  have  informed  Sophy,  sternly, 
that  black  princess  effects,  cut  low,  were  not  au 
fait  in  the  shoe-clerk  world.  But  Sophy's  boss 
had  a  rhombic  nose,  and  no  instep,  and  the  tail 
of  his  name  had  been  amputated.  He  didn't 
care  how  Sophy  wore  her  dresses  so  long  as  she 
sold  shoes. 

\  Once  the  boss  had  kissed  Sophy — not  on  the 
mouth,  but  just  where  her  shabby  gown  formed 
its  charming  but  immodest  V.  Sophy  had 
slapped  him,  of  course.  But  the  slap  had  not  set 

[41] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

the  thing  right  in  her  mind.  She  could  not  for 
get  it.  It  had  made  her  uncomfortable  in  much 
the  same  way  as  we  are  wildly  ill  at  ease  when 
we  dream  of  walking  naked  in  a  crowded  street. 
At  odd  moments  during  the  day  Sophy  had 
found  herself  rubbing  the  spot  furiously  with 
her  unlovely  handkerchief,  and  shivering  a  lit 
tle.  She  had  never  told  the  other  girls  about 
that  kiss./ 

So — there  you  have  Sophy  and  her  costume. 
You  may  take  her  or  leave  her.  I  purposely 
placed  these  defects  in  costuming  right  at  the 
beginning  of  the  story,  so  that  there  should  be 
no  false  pretenses.  One  more  detail.  About 
Sophy's  throat  was  a  slender,  near-gold  chain 
from  which  was  suspended  a  cheap  and  glitter 
ing  La  Valliere.  Sophy  had  not  intended  it  as  a 
sop  to  the  conventions.  It  was  an  offering  on 
the  shrine  of  Fashion,  and  represented  many 
lunchless  days. 

At  eleven  o'clock  one  August  morning,  Louie 
came  to  Chicago  from  Oskaloosa,  Iowa.  There 
was  no  hay  in  his  hair.  /  The  comic  papers  have 
long  insisted  that  the  country  boy,  on  his  first 
visit  to  the  city,  is  known  by  his  greased  boots 
and  his  high-water  pants.  Don't  you  believe 

[42] 


WHAT  SHE  WORE 

them.  The  small-town  boy  is  as  fastidious  about 
the  height  of  his  heels  and  the  stripe  of  his  shirt 
and  the  roll  of  his  hat-brim  as  are  his  city 
brothers.  He  peruses  the  slangily  worded  ads 
of  the  "classy  clothes"  tailors,  and  when  scarlet 
cravats  are  worn  the  small-town  boy  is  not  more 
than  two  weeks  late  in  acquiring  one  that  glows 
like  a  headlight.  / 

Louie  found  a  rooming-house,  shoved  his 
suitcase  under  the  bed,  changed  his  collar, 
washed  his  hands  in  the  gritty  water  of  the  wash 
bowl,  and  started  out  to  look  for  a  job. 

Louie  was  twenty-one.  For  the  last  four 
years  he  had  been  employed  in  the  best  shoe 
store  at  home,  and  he  knew  shoe  leather  from 
the  factory  to  the  ash  barrel.  It  was  almost  a 
religion  with  him. 

Curiosity,  which  plays  leads  in  so  many  life 
dramas,  led  Louie  to  the  rotunda  of  the  tallest 
building.  It  was  built  on  the  hollow  center  plan, 
with  a  sheer  drop  from  the  twenty-somethingth 
to  the  main  floor.  Louie  stationed  himself  in 
the  center  of  the  mosaic  floor,  took  off  his  hat, 
bent  backward  almost  double  and  gazed,  his 
mouth  wide  open.  When  he  brought  his  mus 
cles  slowly  back  into  normal  position  he  tried 

[43] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

hard  not  to  look  impressed.  He  glanced  about, 
sheepishly,  to  see  if  any  one  was  laughing  at  him, 
and  his  eye  encountered  the  electric-lighted  glass 
display  case  of  the  shoe  company  upstairs.  The 
case  was  filled  with  pink  satin  slippers  and  cun 
ning  velvet  boots,  and  the  newest  thing  in  bronze 
street  shoes.  Louie  took  the  next  elevator  up. 
The  shoe  display  had  made  him  feel  as  though 
some  one  from  home  had  slapped  him  on  the 
back. 

The  God  of  the  Jobless  was  with  him.  The 
boss  had  fired  two  boys  the  day  before. 

"Oskaloosa !"  grinned  the  boss,  derisively. 
"Do  they  wear  shoes  there  ?  What  do  you  know 
about  shoes,  huh  boy?" 

Louie  told  him.  The  boss  shuffled  the  papers 
on  his  desk,  and  chewed  his  cigar,  and  tried  not 
to  show  his  surprise.  Louie,  quite  innocently, 
was  teaching  the  boss  things  about  the  shoe  busi 
ness. 

When  Louie  had  finished — "Well,  I  try  you, 
anyhow,"  the  boss  grunted,  grudgingly.  "I 
give  you  so-and-so  much."  He  named  a  wage 
that  would  have  been  ridiculous  if  it  had  not 
been  so  pathetic. 

"All  right,  sir,"  answered  Louie,  promptly, 

[44] 


WHAT  SHE  WORE 

like  the  boys  in  the  Alger  series.  The  cost  of 
living  problem  had  never  bothered  Louie  in 
Oskaloosa. 

The  boss  hid  a  pleased  smile. 

"Miss  Epstein !"  he  bellowed,  "step  this  way! 
Miss  Epstein,  kindly  show  this  here  young  man 
so  he  gets  a  line  on  the  stock.  He  is  from  Oska 
loosa,  loway.  Look  out  she  don't  sell  you  a 
gold  brick,  Louie." 

But  Louie  was  not  listening.  He  was  gazing 
at  the  V  in  Sophy  Epstein's  dress  with  all  his 
scandalized  Oskaloosa,  Iowa,  eyes. 

Louie  was  no  mollycoddle.  But  he  had  been 
in  great  demand  as  usher  at  the  Young  Men's 
Sunday  Evening  Club  service  at  the  Congrega 
tional  church,  and  in  his  town  there  had  been  no 
Sophy  Epsteins  in  too-tight  princess  dresses,  cut 
into  a  careless  V.  But  Sophy  was  a  city  product 
— I  was  about  to  say  pure  and  simple,  but  I  will 
not — wise,  bold,  young,  old,  underfed,  over 
worked,  and  triumphantly  pretty. 

"How-do!"  cooed  Sophy  in  her  best  baby 
tones.  Louie's  disapproving  eyes  jumped  from 
the  objectionable  V  in  Sophy's  dress  to  the  lure 
of  Sophy's  face,  and  their  expression  underwent 
a  lightning  change.  There  was  no  disapprov- 

[45] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

ing  Sophy's  face,  no  matter  how  long  one  had 
dwelt  in  Oskaloosa. 

"I  won't  bite  you,"  said  Sophy.  "I'm  never 
vicious  on  Tuesdays.  We'll  start  here  with  the 
misses'  an'  children's,  and  work  over  to  the  other 
side." 

Whereupon  Louie  was  introduced  into  the  in 
tricacies  of  the  sample  shoe  business.  He  kept 
his  eyes  resolutely  away  from  the  V,  and  learned 
many  things.  He  learned  how  shoes  that  look 
like  six  dollar  values  may  be  sold  for  two-fifty. 
He  looked  on  in  wide-eyed  horror  while  Sophy 
fitted  a  No.  5  C  shoe  on  a  6  B  foot  and  assured 
the  wearer  that  it  looked  like  a  made-to-order 
boot.  He  picked  up  a  pair  of  dull  kid  shoes 
and  looked  at  them.  His  leather-wise  eyes  saw 
much,  and  I  think  he  would  have  taken  his  hat 
off  the  hook,  and  his  offended  business  principles 
out  of  the  shop  forever  if  Sophy  had  not  com 
pleted  her  purchase  and  strolled  over  to  him  at 
the  psychological  moment. 

She  smiled  up  at  him,  impudently.  "Well, 
Pink  Cheeks,"  she  said,  "how  do  you  like  our 
little  settlement  by  the  lake,  huh?" 

"These  shoes  aren't  worth  two-fifty,"  said 
Louie,  indignation  in  his  voice. 

[46] 


WHAT  SHE  WORE 

"Well,  sure,"  replied  Sophy.  "I  know  it. 
What  do  you  think  this  is?  A  charity  bazaar ?" 

"But  back  home "  began  Louie,  hotly. 

"Ferget  it,  kid,"  said  Sophy.  "This  is  a  big 
town,  but  it  ain't  got  no  room  for  back-homers. 
Don't  sour  on  one  job  till  you've  got  another 
nailed.  You'll  find  yourself  cuddling  down  on  a 
park  bench  if  you  do.  Say,  are  you  honestly 
from  Oskaloosa?" 

"I  certainly  am,"  answered  Louie,  with  pride. 

"My  goodness!"  ejaculated  Sophy.  "I  never 
believed  there  was  no  such  place.  Don't  brag 
about  it  to  the  other  fellows." 

"What  time  do  you  go  out  for  lunch?"  asked 
Louie. 

"What's  it  to  you?"  with  the  accent  on  the 
"to." 

"When  I  want  to  know  a  thing,  I  generally 
ask,"  explained  Louie,  gently. 

Sophy  looked  at  him — a  long,  keen,  knowing 
look.  "You'll  learn,"  she  observed,  thought 
fully. 

Louie  did  learn.  He  learned  so  much  in  that 
first  week  that  when  Sunday  came  it  seemed  as 
though  aeons  had  passed  over  his  head.  He 
learned  that  the  crime  of  murder  was  as  noth- 

[47] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

ing  compared  to  the  crime  of  allowing  a  cus 
tomer  to  depart  shoeless;  he  learned  that  the 
lunch  hour  was  invented  for  the  purpose  of  mak 
ing  dates;  that  no  one  had  ever  heard  of  Oska- 
loosa,  Iowa ;  that  seven  dollars  a  week  does  not 
leave  much  margin  for  laundry  and  general  reck 
lessness;  that  a  madonna  face  above  a  V-cut 
gown  is  apt  to  distract  one's  attention  from 
shoes;  that  a  hundred-dollar  nest  egg  is  as  ef 
fective  in  Chicago  as  a  pine  stick  would  be  in 
propping  up  a  stone  wall ;  and  that  all  the  other 
men  clerks  called  Sophy  "sweetheart." 

Some  of  his  newly  acquired  knowledge 
brought  pain,  as  knowledge  is  apt  to  do. 

He  saw  that  State  Street  was  crowded  with 
Sophys  during  the  noon  hour;  girls  with  lovely 
faces  under  pitifully  absurd  hats.  Girls  who 
aped  the  fashions  of  the  dazzling  creatures  they 
saw  stepping  from  limousines.  Girls  who 
starved  body  and  soul  in  order  to  possess  a  set 
of  false  curls,  or  a  pair  of  black  satin  shoes  with 
mother-o'-pearl  buttons.  Girls  whose  minds 
were  bounded  on  the  north  by  the  nickel 
theatres;  on  the  east  by  "I  sez  to  him";  on  the 
south  by  the  gorgeous  shop  windows;  and  on 
the  west  by  "He  sez  t'  me." 

[48] 


WHAT  SHE  WORE 

Oh,  I  can't  tell  you  how  much  Louie  learnea 
in  that  first  week  while  his  eyes  were  getting  ac 
customed  to  the  shifting,  jostling,  pushing,  gig 
gling,  walking,  talking  throng.  The  city  is 
justly  famed  as  a  hot  house  of  forced  knowledge. 

One  thing  Louie  could  not  learn.  He  could 
not  bring  himself  to  accept  the  V  in  Sophy's 
dress.  ^Louie's  mother  had  been  one  of  the  old- 
fashioned  kind  who  wore  a  blue-and-white 
checked  gingham  apron  from  6  A.M.  to  2  P.M., 
when  she  took  it  off  to  go  downtown  and  help 
the  ladies  of  the  church  at  the  cake  sale  in  the 
empty  window  of  the  gas  company's  office,  only 
to  don  it  again  when  she  fried  the  potatoes  for 
supper./  Among  other  things  she  had  taught 
Louie  to  wipe  his  feet  before  coming  in,  to  re 
spect  and  help  women,  and  to  change  his  socks 
often. 

After  a  month  of  Chicago  Louie  forgot  the 
first  lesson;  had  more  difficulty  than  I  can  tell 
you  in  reverencing  a  woman  who  only  said,  "Aw, 
don't  get  fresh  now!"  when  the  other  men  put 
their  arms  about  her;  and  adhered  to  the  third 
only  after  a  struggle,  in  which  he  had  to  do  a 
small  private  washing  in  his  own  wash-bowl  in 
the  evening. 

[49] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

Sophy  called  him  a  stiff.  His  gravely  courte 
ous  treatment  of  her  made  her  vaguely  uncom 
fortable.  She  was  past  mistress  in  the  art  of 
parrying  insults  and  banter,  but  she  had  no  reply 
ready  for  Louie's  boyish  air  of  deference.  It  an 
gered  her  for  some  unreasonable  woman-reason. 

There  came  a  day  when  the  V-cut  dress 
brought  them  to  open  battle.  I  think  Sophy 
had  appeared  that  morning  minus  the  chain  and 
La  Valliere.  Frail  and  cheap  as  it  was,  it  had 
been  the  only  barrier  that  separated  Sophy  from 
frank  shamelessness.  Louie's  outraged  sense  of 
propriety  asserted  itself. 

"Sophy,"  he  stammered,  during  a  quiet  half- 
hour,  "I'll  call  for  you  and  take  you  to  the  nickel 
show  to-night  if  you'll  promise  not  to  wear  that 
dress.  What  makes  you  wear  that  kind  of  a 
get-up,  anyway?" 

"Dress?"  queried  Sophy,  looking  down  at  the 
shiny  front  breadth  of  her  frock.  "Why?  Don't 
you  like  it?" 

"Like  it!    No!"  blurted  Louie. 

"Don't  yuh,  rully !  Deahme!  Deah  me!  If 
I'd  only  knew  that  this  morning.  As  a  gen'ral 
thing  I  wear  white  duck  complete  down  t'  work, 
but  I'm  savin'  my  last  two  clean  suits  f'r  gawlf." 

[50] 


WHAT  SHE  WORE 

Louie  ran  an  uncomfortable  finger  around  the 
edge  of  his  collar,  but  he  stood  his  ground.  "It 
— it — shows  your — neck  so,"  he  objected,  mis 
erably. 

Sophy  opened  her  great  eyes  wide.  "Well, 
supposin'  it  does?"  she  inquired,  coolly.  "It's  a 
perfectly  good  neck,  ain't  it?" 

Louie,  his  face  very  red,  took  the  plunge. 
"I  don't  know.  I  guess  so.  But,  Sophy,  it — 
looks  so — so — you  know  what  I  mean.  I  hate 
to  see  the  way  the  fellows  rubber  at  you.  Why 
don't  you  wear  those  plain  shirtwaist  things, 
with  high  collars,  like  my  mother  wears  back 
home?" 

Sophy's  teeth  came  together  with  a  click.  She 
laughed  a  short  cruel  little  laugh.  "Say,  Pink 
Cheeks,  did  yuh  ever  do  a  washin'  from  seven 
to  twelve,  after  you  got  home  from  work  in  the 
evenin'  ?  It's  great !  'Specially  when  you're  liv 
ing  in  a  six-by-ten  room  with  all  the  modern  in 
conveniences,  includin'  no  water  except  on  the 
third  floor  down.  Simple!  Say,  a  child  could 
work  it.  All  you  got  to  do,  when  you  get  home 
so  tired  your  back  teeth  ache,  is  to  haul  your 
water,  an'  soak  your  clothes,  an'  then  rub  'em  till 
your  hands  peel,  and  rinse  'em,  an'  boil  'em,  and 

[51] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

blue  'em,  an'  starch  'em.     See?    Just  like  that. 
Nothin'  to  it,  kid.     Nothin'  to  it." 

Louie  had  been  twisting  his  fingers  nervously. 
Now  his  hands  shut  themselves  into  fists.  He 
looked  straight  into  Sophy's  angry  eyes. 

"I  do  know  what  it  is,"  he  said,  quite  simply. 
^There's  been  a  lot  written  and  said  about 
women's  struggle  with  clothes.  I  wonder  why 
they've  never  said  anything  about  the  way  a 
man  has  to  fight  to  keep  up  the  thing  they  call 
appearances./  God  knows  it's  pathetic  enough 
to  think  of  a  girl  like  you  bending  over  a  tub- 
ful  of  clothes.  But  when  a  man  has  to  do  it, 
it's  a  tragedy." 

"That's  so,"  agreed  Sophy.  "When  a  girl  gets 
shabby,  and  her  clothes  begin  t'  look  tacky  she 
can  take  a  gore  or  so  out  of  her  skirt  where  it's 
the  most  wore,  and  catch  it  in  at  the  bottom, 
and  call  it  a  hobble.  An'  when  her  waist  gets 
too  soiled  she  can  cover  up  the  front  of  it  with 
a  jabot,  an'  if  her  face  is  pretty  enough  she  can 
carry  it  off  that  way.  But  when  a  man  is  seedy, 
he's  seedy.  He  can't  sew  no  ruffles  on  his 
pants." 

/    "I   ran   short   last  week,"   continued  Louie. 
"That  is,  shorter  than  usual.     I  hadn't  the  fifty 

[52] 


ON    HER    FACE   WAS    A   NEW,    STRANGE    LOOK,   AS    OF    SOME 
THING  HALF  FORGOTTEN" 


WHAT  SHE  WORE 

cents  to  give  to  the  woman.  You  ought  to  see 
her!  A  little,  gray- faced  thing,  with  wisps  of 
hair,  and  no  chest  to  speak  of,  and  one  of  those 
mashed-looking  black  hats.  Nobody  could  have 
the  nerve  to  ask  her  to  wait  for  her  money.  So 
I  did  my  own  washing.  I  haven't  learned  to 
wear  soiled  clothes  yet.  I  laughed  fit  to  bust 
while  I  was  doing  it.  But — I'll  bet  my  mother 
dreamed  of  me  that  night.  The  way  they  do, 
you  know,  when  something's  gone  wrong."  I 
(  Sophy,  perched  on  the  third  rung  of  the  slid 
ing  ladder,  was  gazing  at  him.  Her  lips  were 
parted  slightly,  and  her  cheeks  were  very  pink. 
On  her  face  was  a  new,  strange  look,  as  of  some 
thing  half  forgotten.  It  was  as  though  the  spirit 
of  Sophy-as-she-might-have-been  were  inhabit 
ing  her  soul  for  a  brief  moment.  At  Louie's 
next  words  the  look  was  gone./ 

" Can't  you  sew  something — a  lace  yoke — or 
whatever  you  call  'em — in  that  dress?"  he  per 
sisted. 

"Aw,  fade!"  jeered  Sophy.  "When  a  girl's 
only  got  one  dress  it's  got  to  have  some  tong 
to  it.  Maybe  this  gown  would  cause  a  wave  of 
indignation  in  Oskaloosa,  Iowa,  but  it  don't  even 
make  a  ripple  on  State  Street.  I  It  takes  more 

[53] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

than  an  aggravated  Dutch  neck  to  make  a  fel 
low  look  at  a  girl  these  days.  In  a  town  like 
this  a  girl's  got  to  make  a  showin'  some  way. 
I'm  my  own  stage  manager.  They  look  at  my 
dress  first,  an'  grin.  See?  An'  then  they  look 
at  my  face.  I'm  like  the  girl  in  the  story.  Muh 
face  is  muh  fortune.  It's  earned  me  many  a 
square  meal;  an'  lemme  tell  you,  Pink  Cheeks, 
eatin'  square  meals  is  one  of  my  favorite  pas 
times."  ; 

"Say  looka  here!"  bellowed  the  boss,  wrath- 
fully.  "Just  cut  out  this  here  Romeo  and  Juliet 
act,  will  you !  That  there  ladder  ain't  for  no 
balcony  scene,  understand.  Here  you,  Louie, 
you  shinny  up  there  and  get  down  a  pair  of  them 
brown  satin  pumps,  small  size." 

Sophy  continued  to  wear  the  black  dress.  The 
V-cut  neck  seemed  more  flaunting  than  ever. 

It  was  two  weeks  later  that  Louie  came  in 
from  lunch,  his  face  radiant.  He  was  fifteen 
minutes  late,  but  he  listened  to  the  boss's  ravings 
with  a  smile. 

"You  grin  like  somebody  handed  you  a  ten- 
case  note,"  commented  Sophy,  with  a  woman's 
curiosity.  "I  guess  you  must  of  met  some  rube 
from  home  when  you  was  out  t'  lunch." 

[54] 


WHAT  SHE  WORE 

"Better  than  that!  Who  do  you  think  I 
bumped  right  into  in  the  elevator  going  down?" 

"Well,  Brothah  Bones,"  mimicked  Sophy, 
"who  did  you  meet  in  the  elevator  going  down?" 

"I  met  a  man  named  Ames.  He  used  to 
travel  for  a  big  Boston  shoe  house,  and  he  made 
our  town  every  few  months.  We  got  to  be  good 
friends.  I  took  him  home  for  Sunday  dinner 
once,  and  he  said  it  was  the  best  dinner  he'd  had 
in  months.  You  know  how  tired  those  travel 
ing  men  get  of  hotel  grub." 

"Cut  out  the  description  and  get  down  to  ac 
tion,"  snapped  Sophy. 

"Well,  he  knew  me  right  away.  And  he 
made  me  go  out  to  lunch  with  him.  A  real 
lunch,  starting  with  soup.  Gee !  It  went  big. 
He  asked  me  what  I  was  doing.  I  told  him  I 
was  working  here,  and  he  opened  his  eyes,  and 
then  he  laughed  and  said :  'How  did  you  get  into 
that  joint?'  Then  he  took  me  down  to  a  swell 
little  shoe  shop  on  State  Street,  and  it  turned  out 
that  he  owns  it.  He  introduced  me  all  around, 
and  I'm  going  there  to  work  next  week.  And 
wages !  Why  say,  it's  almost  a  salary.  A  fel 
low  can  hold  his  head  up  in  a  place  like  that." 

"When  you  leavin'  ?"  asked  Sophy,  slowly. 

[55] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

"Monday.     Gee!  it  seems  a  year  away." 

Sophy  was  late  Saturday  morning.  When 
she  came  in,  hurriedly,  her  cheeks  were  scarlet 
and  her  eyes  glowed.  She  took  off  her  hat  and 
coat  and  fell  to  straightening  boxes  and  putting 
out  stock  without  looking  up.  She  took  no  part 
in  the  talk  and  jest  that  was  going  on  among 
the  other  clerks.  One  of  the  men,  in  search  of 
the  missing  mate  to  the  shoe  in  his  hand,  came 
over  to  her,  greeting  her  carelessly.  Then  he 
stared. 

"Well,  what  do  you  know  about  this!"  he 
called  out  to  the  others,  and  laughed  coarsely, 
"Look,  stop,  listen!  Little  Sophy  Bright  Eyes 
here  has  pulled  down  the  shades." 

Louie  turned  quickly.  The  immodest  V  of 
Sophy's  gown  was  filled  with  a  black  lace  yoke 
that  came  up  to  the  very  lobes  of  her  little  pink 
ears.  She  had  got  some  scraps  of  lace  from — 
Where  do  they  get  those  bits  of  rusty  black? 
From  some  basement  bargain  counter,  perhaps, 
raked  over  during  the  lunch  hour.  There  were 
nine  pieces  in  the  front,  and  seven  in  the  back. 
She  had  sat  up  half  the  night  putting  them  to 
gether  so  that  when  completed  they  looked  like 
one,  if  you  didn't  come  too  close.  There  is  a 

[56] 


WHAT  SHE  WORE 

certain  strain  of  Indian  patience  and  ingenuity 
in  women  that  no  man  has  ever  been  able  to  un 
derstand. 

Lou'ie  looked  up  and  saw.  His  eyes  met 
Sophy's.  In  his  there  crept  a  certain  exultant 
gleam,  as  of  one  who  had  fought  for  something 
great  and  won.  Sophy  saw  the  look.  The  shy 
questioning  in  her  eyes  was  replaced  by  a  spark 
of  defiance.  She  tossed  her  head,  and  turned 
to  the  man  who  had  called  attention  to  her  cos 
tume. 

"Who's  loony  now?"  she  jeered.  "I  always 
put  in  a  yoke  when  it  gets  along  toward  fall. 
My  lungs  is  delicate.  And  anyway,  I  see  by  the 
papers  yesterday  that  collarless  gowns  is  slightly 
passay  f'r  winter." 


[57] 


IV 
A  BUSH  LEAGUE  HERO 

^T^HIS  is  not  a  baseball  story.  The  grand 
stand  does  not  rise  as  one  man  and  shout 
itself  hoarse  with  joy.  There  isn't  a  three-bag 
ger  in  the  entire  three  thousand  words,  and  no 
body  is  carried  home  on  the  shoulders  of  the 
crowd.  For  that  sort  of  thing  you  need  not 
squander  fifteen  cents  on  your  favorite  maga 
zine.  The  modest  sum  of  one  cent  will  make 
you  the  possessor  of  a  Pink  'Un.  There  you 
will  find  the  season's  games  handled  in  masterly 
fashion  by  a  six-best-seller  artist,  an  expert 
mathematician,  and  an  original-slang  humorist. 
No  mere  short  story  dub  may  hope  to  compete 
with  these. 

In  the  old  days,  before  the  gentry  of  the  ring 
had  learned  the  wisdom  of  investing  their  win 
nings  in  solids  instead  of  liquids,  this  used  to  be 
a  favorite  conundrum:  When  is  a  prize-fighter 
not  a  prize-fighter? 

Chorus :  When  he  is  tending  bar. 

I  rise  to  ask  you  Brothah  Fan,  when  is  a  ball 


A  BUSH  LEAGUE  HERO 

player  not  a  ball  player?  Above  the  storm  of 
facetious  replies  I  shout  the  answer: 

When  he's  a  shoe  clerk. 

Any  man  who  can  look  handsome  in  a  dirty 
baseball  suit  is  an  Adonis.  There  is  something 
about  the  baggy  pants,  and  the  Micawber- 
shaped  collar,  and  the  skull-fitting  cap,  and  the 
foot  or  so  of  tan,  or  blue,  or  pink  undershirt 
sleeve  sticking  out  at  the  arms,  that  just  natu 
rally  kills  a  man's  best  points.  Then  too,  a  base 
ball  suit  requires  so  much  in  the  matter  of  leg. 
Therefore,  when  I  say  that  Rudie  Schlachweiler 
was  a  dream  even  in  his  baseball  uniform,  with 
a  dirty  brown  streak  right  up  the  side  of  his 
pants  where  he  had  slid  for  base,  you  may  know 
that  the  girls  camped  on  the  grounds  during  the 
season. 

During  the  summer  months  our  ball  park  is  to 
us  what  the  Grand  Prix  is  to  Paris,  or  Ascot 
is  to  London.  What  care  we  that  Evers  gets 
seven  thousand  a  year  (or  is  it  a  month?)  ;  or 
that  Chicago's  new  South-side  ball  park  seats 
thirty-five  thousand  (or  is  it  million?).  Of 
what  interest  are  such  meager  items  compared 
with  the  knowledge  that  "Pug"  Coulan,  who 
plays  short,  goes  with  Undine  Meyers,  the  girl 

[59] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

up  there  in  the  eighth  row,  with  the  pink  dress 
and  the  red  roses  on  her  hat?  When  "Pug" 
snatches  a  high  one  out  of  the  firmament  we  yell 
with  delight,  and  even  as  we  yell  we  turn  side 
ways  to  look  up  and  see  how  Undine  is  taking 
it.  Undine's  shining  eyes  are  fixed  on  "Pug," 
and  he  knows  it,  stoops  to  brush  the  dust 
off  his  dirt-begrimed  baseball  pants,  takes  an 
attitude  of  careless  grace  and  misses  the  next 
play. 

Our  grand-stand  seats  almost  two  thousand, 
counting  the  boxes.  But  only  the  snobs,  and  the 
girls  with  new  hats,  sit  in  the  boxes.  Box  seats 
are  comfortable,  it  is  true,  and  they  cost  only  an 
additional  ten  cents,  but  we  have  come  to  con 
sider  them  undemocratic,  and  unworthy  of  true 
fans.  Mrs.  Freddy  Van  Dyne,  who  spends  her 
winters  in  Egypt  and  her  summers  at  the  ball 
park,  comes  out  to  the  game  every  afternoon  in 
her  automobile,  but  she  never  occupies  a  box 
seat ;  so  why  should  we  ?  She  perches  up  in  the 
grand-stand  with  the  rest  of  the  enthusiasts,  and 
when  Kelly  puts  one  over  she  stands  up  and 
clinches  her  fists,  and  waves  her  arms  and  shouts 
with  the  best  of  'em.  She  has  even  been  known 
to  cry,  "Good  eye!  Good  eye!"  when  things 

[60] 


A  BUSH  LEAGUE  HERO 

were  at  fever  heat.  The  only  really  blase  indi 
vidual  in  the  ball  park  is  Willie  Grimes,  who 
peddles  ice-cream  cones.  For  that  matter,  I 
once  saw  Willie  turn  a  languid  head  to  pipe,  in 
his  thin  voice,  "Give  'em  a  dark  one,  Dutch! 
Give  'em  a  dark  one!" 

Well,  that  will  do  for  the  firsh  dash  of  local 
color.  Now  for  the  story. 

Ivy  Keller  came  home  June  nineteenth  from 
Miss  Shont's  select  school  for  young  ladies.  By 
June  twenty-first  she  was  bored  limp.  You  could 
hardly  see  the  plaits  of  her  white  tailored  shirt 
waist  for  fraternity  pins  and  secret  society  em 
blems,  and  her  bedroom  was  ablaze  with  col 
lege  banners  and  pennants  to  such  an  extent  that 
the  maid  gave  notice  every  Thursday — which 
was  upstairs  cleaning  day. 

For  two  weeks  after  her  return  Ivy  spent 
most  of  her  time  writing  letters  and  waiting  for 
them,  and  reading  the  classics  on  the  front 
porch,  dressed  in  a  middy  blouse  and  a  blue 
skirt,  with  her  hair  done  in  a  curly  Greek  effect 
like  the  girls  on  the  covers  of  the  Ladies'  Maga 
zine.  She  posed  against  the  canvas  bosom  of 
the  porch  chair  with  one  foot  under  her,  the 
other  swinging  free,  showing  a  tempting  thing 
[61] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

in  beaded  slipper,  silk  stocking,  and  what  the 
story  writers  call  "slim  ankle." 

On  the  second  Saturday  after  her  return  her 
father  came  home  for  dinner  at  noon,  found  her 
deep  in  Volume  Two  of  "Les  Miserables." 

"Whew!  This  is  a  scorcher  1"  he  exclaimed, 
and  dropped  down  on  a  wicker  chair  next  to 
Ivy.  Ivy  looked  at  her  father  with  languid  in 
terest,  and  smiled  a  daughterly  smile.  Ivy's 
father  was  an  insurance  man,  alderman  of  his 
ward,  president  of  the  Civic  Improvement  club, 
member  of  five  lodges,  and  an  habitual  delegate. 
It  generally  was  he  who  introduced  distinguished 
guests  who  spoke  at  the  opera  house  on  Decora 
tion  Day.  He  called  Mrs.  Keller  "Mother," 
and  he  wasn't  above  noticing  the  fit  of  a 
gown  on  a  pretty  feminine  figure.  He  thought 
Ivy  was  an  expurgated  edition  of  Lillian 
Russell,  Madame  De  Stael,  and  Mrs.  Pank- 
hurst. 

"Aren't  you  feeling  well,  Ivy?"  he  asked. 
"Looking  a  little  pale.  It's  the  heat,  I  suppose. 
Gosh !  Something  smells  good.  Run  in  and  tell 
Mother  I'm  here." 

Ivy  kept  one  slender  finger  between  the  leaves 
of  her  book.     "I'm  perfectly  well,"  she  replied. 
[62] 


A  BUSH  LEAGUE  HERO 

"That  must  be  beefsteak  and  onions.  Ugh!" 
And  she  shuddered,  and  went  indoors. 

Dad  Keller  looked  after  her  thoughtfully. 
Then  he  went  in,  washed  his  hands,  and  sat 
down  at  table  with  Ivy  and  her  mother. 

"Just  a  sliver  for  me,"  said  Ivy,  "and  no 


onions." 


Her  father  put  down  his  knife  and  fork, 
cleared  his  throat,  and  spake,  thus: 

"You  get  on  your  hat  and  meet  me  at  the 
2 145  inter-urban.  You're  going  to  the  ball 
game  with  me." 

"Ball  game!"  repeated  Ivy.  "I?  But 
I'd " 

"Yes,  you  do,"  interrupted  her  father. 
"YouVe  been  moping  around  here  looking  a 
cross  between  Saint  Cecilia  and  Little  Eva  long 
enough.  I  don't  care  if  you  don't  know  a  spit- 
ball  from  a  fadeaway  when  you  see  it.  You'll 
be  out  in  the  air  all  afternoon,  and  there'll  be 
some  excitement.  All  the  girls  go.  You'll  like 
it.  They're  playing  Marshalltown." 

Ivy  went,  looking  the  sacrificial  lamb.  Five 
minutes  after  the  game  was  called  she  pointed 
one  tapering  white  finger  in  the  direction  of  the 
pitcher's  mound. 

[63] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

"Who's  that?"  she  asked. 

"Pitcher,"  explained  Papa  Keller,  laconically. 
Then,  patiently:  "He  throws  the  ball." 

"Oh,"  said  Ivy.  "What  did  you  say  his  name 
was?" 

"I  didn't  say.  But  it's  Rudie  Schlachweiler. 
The  boys  call  him  Dutch.  Kind  of  a  pet,  Dutch 


is." 


"Rudie  Schlachweiler!"  murmured  Ivy, 
dreamily.  "What  a  Strong  name !" 

"Want  some  peanuts?"  inquired  her  father. 

"Does  one  eat  peanuts  at  a  ball  game?" 

"It  ain't  hardly  legal  if  you  don't,"  Pa  Keller 
assured  her. 

"Two  sacks,"  said  Ivy.  "Papa,  why  do  they 
call  it  a  diamond,  and  what  are  those  brown 
bags  at  the  corners,  and  what  does  it  count  if 
you  hit  the  ball,  and  why  do  they  rub  their  hands 
in  the  dust  and  then — er — spit  on  them,  and 
what  salary  does  a  pitcher  get,  and  why  does  the 
red-haired  man  on  the  other  side  dance  around 
like  that  between  the  second  and  third  brown 
bag,  and  doesn't  a  pitcher  do  anything  but  pitch, 
andwh ?" 

"You're  on,"  said  papa. 

After  that  Ivy  didn't  miss  a  game  during  all 

[64] 


A  BUSH  LEAGUE  HERO 

the  time  that  the  team  played  in  the  home  town. 
She  went  without  a  new  hat,  and  didn't  care 
whether  Jean  Faljean  got  away  with  the  goods 
or  not,  and  forgot  whether  you  played  third 
hand  high  or  low  in  bridge.  She  even  became 
chummy  with  Undine  Meyers,  who  wasn't  her 
kind  of  a  girl  at  all.  Undine  was  thin  in  a  vo 
luptuous  kind  of  way,  if  such  a  paradox  can  be, 
and  she  had  red  lips,  and  a  roving  eye,  and  she 
ran  around  downtown  without  a  hat  more  than 
was  strictly  necessary.  But  Undine  and  Ivy  had 
two  subjects  in  common.  They  were  baseball 
and  love.  It  is  queer  how  the  limelight  will 
make  heroes  of  us  all. 

Now  "Pug"  Coulan,  who  was  red-haired,  and 
had  shoulders  like  an  ox,  and  arms  that  hung 
down  to  his  knees,  like  those  of  an  orang-outang, 
slaughtered  beeves  at  the  Chicago  stockyards  in 
winter.  In  the  summer  he  slaughtered  hearts. 
He  wore  mustard  colored  shirts  that  matched 
his  hair,  and  his  baseball  stockings  generally  had 
a  rip  in  them  somewhere,  but  when  he  was  on 
the  diamond  we  were  almost  ashamed  to  look 
at  Undine,  so  wholly  did  her  heart  shine  in  her 
eyes. 

Now,  we'll  have  just  another  dash  or  two  of 

[65] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

local  color.  In  a  small  town  the  chances  for 
hero  worship  are  few.  If  it  weren't  for  the 
traveling  men  our  girls  wouldn't  know  whether 
stripes  or  checks  were  the  thing  in  gents'  suit 
ings.  When  the  baseball  season  opened  the  girls 
swarmed  on  it.  Those  that  didn't  understand 
baseball  pretended  they  did.  When  the  team 
was  out  of  town  our  form  of  greeting  was 
changed  from,  "Good-morning!"  or  "Howdy- 
do!"  to  "What's  the  score?"  Every  night  the 
results  of  the  games  throughout  the  league  were 
posted  up  on  the  blackboard  in  front  of  Schlag- 
er's  hardware  store,  and  to  see  the  way  in  which 
the  crowd  stood  around  it,  and  streamed  across 
the  street  toward  it,  you'd  have  thought  they 
were  giving  away  gas  stoves  and  hammock 
couches. 

Going  home  in  the  street  car  after  the  game 
the  girls  used  to  gaze  adoringly  at  the  dirty 
faces  of  their  sweat-begrimed  heroes,  and  then 
they'd  rush  home,  have  supper,  change  their 
dresses,  do  their  hair,  and  rush  downtown  past 
the  Parker  Hotel  to  mail  their  letters.  The 
baseball  boys  boarded  over  at  the  Griggs 
House,  which  is  third-class,  but  they  used 
their  tooth-picks,  and  held  the  post-mortem  of 
[66] 


A  BUSH  LEAGUE  HERO 

the  day's  game  out  in  front  of  the  Parker 
Hotel,  which  is  our  leading  hostelry.  The 
postoffice  receipts  record  for  our  town  was 
broken  during  the  months  of  June,  July,  and 
August. 

Mrs.  Freddy  Van  Dyne  started  the  trouble  by 
having  the  team  over  to  dinner,  "Pug"  Coulan 
and  all.  After  all,  why  not?  No  foreign  and 
impecunious  princes  penetrate  as  far  inland  as 
our  town.  They  get  only  as  far  as  New  York, 
or  Newport,  where  they  are  gobbled  up  by 
many-moneyed  matrons.  If  Mrs.  Freddy  Van 
Dyne  found  the  supply  of  available  lions  limited, 
why  should  she  not  try  to  content  herself  with 
a  jackal  or  so? 

Ivy  was  asked.  Until  then  she  had  contented 
herself  writh  gazing  at  her  hero.  She  had  be 
come  such  a  hardened  baseball  fan  that  she  fol 
lowed  the  game  with  a  score  card,  accurately  jot 
ting  down  every  play,  and  keeping  her  watch 
open  on  her  knee. 

She  sat  next  to  Rudie  at  dinner.  Before  she 
had  nibbled  her  second  salted  almond,  Ivy  Kel 
ler  and  Rudie  Schlachweiler  understood  each 
other.  Rudie  illustrated  certain  plays  by  draw 
ing  lines  on  the  table-cloth  with  his  knife  and 

[67] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

Ivy  gazed,  wide-eyed,  and  allowed  her  soup  to 
grow  cold. 

The  first  night  that  Rudie  called,  Pa  Keller 
thought  it  a  great  joke.  He  sat  out  on  the  porch 
with  Rudie  and  Ivy  and  talked  baseball,  and  got 
up  to  show  Rudie  how  he  could  have  got  the 
goat  of  that  Keokuk  catcher  if  only  he  had  tried 
one  of  his  famous  open-faced  throws.  Rudie 
looked  politely  interested,  and  laughed  in  all  the 
right  places.  But  Ivy  didn't  need  to  pretend. 
Rudie  Schlachweiler  spelled  baseball  to  her. 
She  did  not  think  of  her  caller  as  a  good-looking 
young  man  in  a  blue  serge  suit  and  a  white  shirt 
waist.  Even  as  he  sat  there  she  saw  him  as  a 
blonde  god  standing  on  the  pitcher's  mound,  with 
the  scars  of  battle  on  his  baseball  pants,  his  left 
foot  placed  in  front  of  him  at  right  angles  with 
his  right  foot,  his  gaze  fixed  on  first  base  in  a 
cunning  effort  to  deceive  the  man  at  bat,  in  that 
favorite  attitude  of  pitchers  just  before  they 
get  ready  to  swing  their  left  leg  and  h'ist  one 
over. 

The  second  time  that  Rudie  called,  Ma  Kellar 
said: 

"Ivy,   I  don't  like  that  ball  player  coming 
here  to  see  you.    The  neighbors'll  talk." 
[68] 


A  BUSH  LEAGUE  HERO 

The  third  time  Rudie  called,  Pa  Keller  said: 
"What's  that  guy  doing  here  again?" 

The  fourth  time  Rudie  called,  Pa  Keller  and 
Ma  Keller  said,  in  unison:  "This  thing  has  got 
to  stop." 

But  it  didn't.  It  had  had  too  good  a  start. 
For  the  rest  of  the  season  Ivy  met  her  knight  of 
the  sphere  around  the  corner.  Theirs  was  a  walk 
ing  courtship.  They  used  to  roam  up  as  far  as 
the  State  road,  and  down  as  far  as  the  river,  and 
Rudie  would  fain  have  talked  of  love,  but  Ivy 
talked  of  baseball. 

"Darling,"  Rudie  would  murmur,  pressing 
Ivy's  arm  closer,  "when  did  you  first  begin  to 
care?" 

"Why  I  liked  the  very  first  game  I  saw  when 
Dad " 

"I  mean,  when  did  you  first  begin  to  care  for 
me?" 

"Oh!  When  you  put  three  men  out  in  that 
game  with  Marshalltown  when  the  teams  were 
tied  in  the  eighth  inning.  Remember?  Say, 
Rudie  dear,  what  was  the  matter  with  your  arm 
to-day?  You  let  three  men  walk,  and  Albia's 
weakest  hitter  got  a  home  run  out  of  you." 

"Oh,  forget  baseball  for  a  minute,  Ivy !  Let's 

[69] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

talk  about  something  else.     Let's  talk  about — 


us." 


"Us?  Well,  you're  baseball,  aren't  you?" 
retorted  Ivy.  "And  if  you  are,  I  am.  Did  you 
notice  the  way  that  Ottumwa  man  pitched  yes 
terday?  He  didn't  do  any  acting  for  the  grand 
stand.  He  didn't  reach  up  above  his  head,  and 
wrap  his  right  shoulder  with  his  left  toe,  and 
swing  his  arm  three  times  and  then  throw  seven 
inches  outside  the  plate.  He  just  took  the  ball 
in  his  hand,  looked  at  it  curiously  for  a  mo 
ment,  and  fired  it — zing! — like  that,  over  the 
plate.  I'd  get  that  ball  if  I  were  you." 

"Isn't  this  a  grand  night?"  murmured  Rudie. 

"But  they  didn't  have  a  hitter  in  the  bunch," 
went  on  Ivy.  "And  not  a  man  in  the  team  could 
run.  That's  why  they're  tail-enders.  Just  the 
same,  that  man  on  the  mound  was  a  wizard,  and 
if  he  had  one  decent  player  to  give  him  some 
support " 

Well,  the  thing  came  to  a  climax.  One  even 
ing,  two  weeks  before  the  close  of  the  season, 
Ivy  put  on  her  hat  and  announced  that  she  was 
going  downtown  to  mail  her  letters. 

"Mail  your  letters  in  the  daytime,"  growled 
Papa  Keller. 

[70] 


A  BUSH  LEAGUE  HERO 

"I  didn't  have  time  to-day,"  answered  Ivy. 
"It  was  a  thirteen  inning  game,  and  it  lasted  un 
til  six  o'clock." 

It  was  then  that  Papa  Keller  banged  the 
heavy  fist  of  decision  down  on  the  library 
table. 

"This  thing's  got  to  stop!"  he  thundered.  "I 
won't  have  any  girl  of  mine  running  the  streets 
with  a  ball  player,  understand?  Now  you  quit 
seeing  this  seventy-five-dollars-a-month  bush 
leaguer  or  leave  this  house.  I  mean  it." 

"All  right,"  said  Ivy,  with  a  white-hot  calm. 
"I'll  leave.  I  can  make  the  grandest  kind  of 
angel-food  with  marshmallow  icing,  and  you 
know  yourself  my  fudges  can't  be  equaled.  He'll 
be  playing  in  the  major  leagues  in  three  years. 
Why  just  yesterday  there  was  a  strange  man  at 
the  game — a  city  man,  you  could  tell  by  his  hat 
band,  and  the  way  his  clothes  were  cut.  He 
stayed  through  the  whole  game,  and  never  took 
his  eyes  off  Rudie.  I  just  know  he  was  a  scout 
for  the  Cubs." 

"Probably  a  hardware  drummer,  or  a  fellow 
that  Schlachweiler  owes  money  to." 

Ivy  began  to  pin  on  her  hat.  A  scared  look 
leaped  into  Papa  Keller's  eyes.  He  looked  a 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

little  old,  too,  and  drawn,  at  that  minute.  He 
stretched  forth  a  rather  tremulous  hand. 

"Ivy — girl,"  he  said. 

"What?"  snapped  Ivy. 

"Your  old  father's  just  talking  for  your  own 
good.  You're  breaking  your  ma's  heart.  You 
and  me  have  been  good  pals,  haven't  we?" 

"Yes,"  said  Ivy,  grudgingly,  and  without 
looking  up. 

"Well  now,  look  here.  I've  got  a  proposi 
tion  to  make  to  you.  The  season's  over  in  two 
more  weeks.  The  last  week  they  play  out  of 
town.  Then  the  boys'll  come  back  for  a  week 
or  so,  just  to  hang  around  town  and  try  to  get 
used  to  the  idea  of  leaving  us.  Then  they'll 
scatter  to  take  up  their  winter  jobs — cutting  ice, 
most  of  'em,"  he  added,  grimly. 

"Mr.  Schlachweiler  is  employed  in  a  large  es 
tablishment  in  Slatersville,  Ohio,"  said  Ivy,  with 
dignity.  "He  regards  baseball  as  his  profes 
sion,  and  he  cannot  do  anything  that  would  af 
fect  his  pitching  arm." 

Pa  Keller  put  on  the  tremolo  stop  and 
brought  a  misty  look  into  his  eyes. 

"Ivy,  you'll  do  one  last  thing  for  your  old 
father,  won't  you?" 

[72] 


A  BUSH  LEAGUE  HERO 

" Maybe,"  answered  Ivy,  coolly. 

"Don't  make  that  fellow  any  promises.  Now 
wait  a  minute !  Let  me  get  through.  I  won't 
put  any  crimp  in  your  plans.  I  won't  speak  to 
Schlachweiler.  Promise  you  won't  do  anything 
rash  until  the  ball  season's  over.  Then  we'll 
wait  just  one  month,  see?  Till  along  about  No 
vember.  Then  if  you  feel  like  you  want  to  see 
him " 

"But  how " 

"Hold  on.  You  mustn't  write  to  him,  or  see 
him,  or  let  him  write  to  you  during  that  time, 
see?  Then,  if  you  feel  the  way  you  do  now, 
I'll  take  you  to  Slatersville  to  see  him.  Now 
that's  fair,  ain't  it?  Only  don't  let  him  know 
you're  coming." 

uM-m-m-yes,"  said  Ivy. 

"Shake  hands  on  it."  She  did.  Then  she 
left  the  room  with  a  rush,  headed  in  the  direc 
tion  of  her  own  bedroom.  Pa  Keller  treated 
himself  to  a  prodigious  wink  and  went  out  to  the 
vegetable  garden  in  search  of  Mother. 

The  team  went  out  on  the  road,  lost  five 
games,  won  two,  and  came  home  in  fourth  place. 
For  a  week  they  lounged  around  the  Parker 
Hotel  and  held  up  the  street  corners  downtown, 

[73] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

took  many  farewell  drinks,  then,  slowly,  by  ones 
and  twos,  they  left  for  the  packing  houses, 
freight  depots,  and  gents'  furnishing  stores  from 
whence  they  came. 

October  came  in  with  a  blaze  of  sumac  and 
oak  leaves.  Ivy  stayed  home  and  learned  to 
make  veal  loaf  and  apple  pies.  The  worry  lines 
around  Pa  Keller's  face  began  to  deepen.  Ivy 
said  that  she  didn't  believe  that  she  cared  to  go 
back  to  Miss  Shont's  select  school  for  young 
ladies. 

October  thirty-first  came. 

"We'll  take  the  eight-fifteen  to-morrow,"  said 
her  father  to  Ivy. 

"All  right,"  said  Ivy. 

"Do  you  know  where  he  works?"  asked  he. 

"No,"  answered  Ivy. 

"That'll  be  all  right.  I  took  the  trouble  to 
look  him  up  last  August." 

The  short  November  afternoon  was  drawing 
to  its  close  (as  our  best  talent  would  put  it) 
when  Ivy  and  her  father  walked  along  the  streets 
of  Slatersville.  (I  can't  tell  you  what  streets, 
because  I  don't  know.)  Pa  Keller  brought  up 
before  a  narrow  little  shoe  shop. 

"Here  we  are,"  he  said,  and  ushered  Ivy  in. 

[74] 


A  BUSH  LEAGUE  HERO 

A  short,  stout,  proprietary  figure  approached 
them  smiling  a  mercantile  smile. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you?"  he  inquired. 

Ivy's  eyes  searched  the  shop  for  a  tall,  gold 
en-haired  form  in  a  soiled  baseball  suit. 

"We'd  like  to  see  a  gentleman  named  Schlach- 
weiler — Rudolph  Schlachweiler,"  said  Pa  Kel 
ler. 

"Anything  very  special?"  inquired  the  pro 
prietor.  "He's — rather  busy  just  now. 
Wouldn't  anybody  else  do?  Of  course,  if " 

"No,"  growled  Keller. 

The  boss  turned.  "Hi!  Schlachweiler!"  he 
bawled  toward  the  rear  of  the  dim  little  shop. 

"Yessir,"  answered  a  muffled  voice. 

"Front!"  yelled  the  boss,  and  withdrew  to  a 
safe  listening  distance. 

A  vaguely  troubled  look  lurked  in  the  depths 
of  Ivy's  eyes.  From  behind  the  partition  of  the 
rear  of  the  shop  emerged  a  tall  figure.  It  was 
none  other  than  our  hero.  He  was  in  his  shirt 
sleeves,  and  he  struggled  into  his  coat  as  he  came 
forward,  wiping  his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his 
hand,  hurriedly,  and  swallowing. 

I  have  said  that  the  shop  was  dim.  Ivy  and 
her  father  stood  at  one  side,  their  backs  to  the 

[75] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

light.  Rudie  came  forward,  rubbing  his  hands 
together  in  the  manner  of  clerks. 

"Something  in  shoes?"  he  politely  inquired. 

Then  he  saw. 

"Ivy!— ah— Miss  Keller!"  he  exclaimed. 
Then,  awkwardly:  "Well,  how-do,  Mr.  Keller. 
I  certainly  am  glad  to  see  you  both.  How's  the 
old  town  ?  What  are  you  doing  in  Slatersville  ?" 

"Why— Ivy "  began  Pa  Keller,  blunder 
ingly. 

But  Ivy  clutched  his  arm  with  a  warning 
hand.  The  vaguely  troubled  look  in  her  eyes 
had  become  wildly  so. 

"Schlachweiler!"  shouted  the  voice  of  the 
boss.  "Customers!"  and  he  waved  a  hand  in 
the  direction  of  the  fitting  benches. 

"All  right,  sir,"  answered  Rudie.  "Just  a 
minute." 

"Dad  had  to  come  on  business,"  said  Ivy,  hur 
riedly.  "And  he  brought  me  with  him.  I'm — 
I'm  on  my  way  to  school  in  Cleveland,  you 
know.  Awfully  glad  to  have  seen  you  again. 
We  must  go.  That  lady  wants  her  shoes,  I'm 
sure,  and  your  employer  is  glaring  at  us.  Come, 
dad." 

At  the  door  she  turned  just  in  time  to  see 

[76] 


A  BUSH  LEAGUE  HERO 

Rudie  removing  the  shoe  from  the  pudgy  foot 
of  the  fat  lady  customer. 

We'll  take  a  jump  of  six  months.  That  brings 
us  into  the  lap  of  April. 

Pa  Keller  looked  up  from  his  evening  paper. 
Ivy,  home  for  the  Easter  vacation,  was  at  the 
piano.  Ma  Keller  was  sewing. 

Pa  Keller  cleared  his  throat.  "I  see  by  the 
paper,"  he  announced,  "that  Schlachweiler's 
been  sold  to  Des  Moines.  Too  bad  we  lost  him. 
He  was  a  great  little  pitcher,  but  he  played  in 
bad  luck.  Whenever  he  was  on  the  slab  the  boys 
seemed  to  give  him  poor  support." 

"Fudge!"  exclaimed  Ivy,  continuing  to  play, 
but  turning  a  spirited  face  toward  her  father. 
"What  piffle !  Whenever  a  player  pitches  rotten 
ball  you'll  always  hear  him  howling  about  the 
support  he  didn't  get.  Schlachweiler  was  a  bum 
pitcher.  Anybody  could  hit  him  with  a  willow 
wand,  on  a  windy  day,  with  the  sun  in  his  eyes." 


[77] 


V 
THE  KITCHEN  SIDE  OF  THE  DOOR 

HPHE  City  was  celebrating  New  Year's  Eve. 
Spelled  thus,  with  a  capital  C,  know  it  can 
mean  but  New  York.  In  the  Pink  Fountain 
room  of  the  Newest  Hotel  all  those  grand  old 
forms  and  customs  handed  down  to  us  for  the 
occasion  were  being  rigidly  observed  in  all  their 
original  quaintness.  The  Van  Dyked  man  who 
looked  like  a  Russian  Grand  Duke  (he  really 
was  a  chiropodist)  had  drunk  champagne  out  of 
the  pink  satin  slipper  of  the  lady  who  behaved 
like  an  actress  (she  was  forelady  at  Schmaus' 
Wholesale  Millinery,  eighth  floor).  The  two 
respectable  married  ladies  there  in  the  corner 
had  been  kissed  by  each  other's  husbands.  The 
slim,  Puritan-faced  woman  in  white,  with  her 
black  hair  so  demurely  parted  and  coiled  in  a 
sleek  knot,  had  risen  suddenly  from  her  place 
and  walked  indolently  to  the  edge  of  the  plash 
ing  pink  fountain  in  the  center  of  the  room,  had 
stood  contemplating  its  shallows  with  a  dreamy 
half-smile  on  her  lips,  and  then  had  lifted  her 

[78] 


THE  KITCHEN  SIDE  OF  THE  DOOR 

slim  legs  slowly  and  gracefully  over  its  fern- 
fringed  basin  and  had  waded  into  its  chilling 
midst,  trailing  her  exquisite  white  satin  and  chif 
fon  draperies  after  her,  and  scaring  the  gold 
fish  into  fits.  The  loudest  scream  of  approba 
tion  had  come  from  the  yellow-haired,  loose- 
lipped  youth  who  had  made  the  wager,  and  lost 
it.  The  heavy  blonde  in  the  inevitable  violet 
draperies  showed  signs  of  wanting  to  dance  on 
the  table.  Her  companion — a  structure  made 
up  of  layer  upon  layer,  and  fold  upon  fold  of 
flabby  tissue — knew  all  the  waiters  by  their  right 
names,  and  insisted  on  singing  with  the  orchestra 
and  beating  time  with  a  rye  roll.  The  clatter 
of  dishes  was  giving  way  to  the  clink  of 
glasses. 

In  the  big,  bright  kitchen  back  of  the  Pink 
Fountain  room  Miss  Gussie  Fink  sat  at  her  desk, 
calm,  watchful,  insolent-eyed,  a  goddess  sitting 
in  judgment.  On  the  pay  roll  of  the  Newest 
Hotel  Miss  Gussie  Fink's  name  appeared  as 
kitchen  checker,  but  her  regular  job  was  god- 
dessing.  Her  altar  was  a  high  desk  in  a  corner 
of  the  busy  kitchen,  and  it  was  an  altar  of  in 
cense,  of  burnt-offerings,  and  of  showbread. 
Inexorable  as  a  goddess  of  the  ancients  was  Miss 

[79] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

Fink,  and  ten  times  as  difficult  to  appease.  For 
this  is  the  rule  of  the  Newest  Hotel,  that  no 
waiter  may  carry  his  laden  tray  restaurantward 
until  its  contents  have  been  viewed  and  duly 
checked  by  the  eye  and  hand  of  Miss  Gussie 
Fink,  or  her  assistants.  Flat  upon  the  table 
must  go  every  tray,  off  must  go  each  silver  dish- 
cover,  lifted  must  be  each  napkin  to  disclose  its 
treasure  of  steaming  corn  or  hot  rolls.  Clouds 
of  incense  rose  before  Miss  Gussie  Fink  and  she 
sniffed  it  unmoved,  her  eyes,  beneath  level  brows, 
regarding  savory  broiler  or  cunning  ice  with 
equal  indifference,  appraising  alike  lobster  cock 
tail  or  onion  soup,  traveling  from  blue  points 
to  brie.  Things  a  la  and  things  glace  were  all 
one  to  her.  Gazing  at  food  was  Miss  Gussie 
Fink's  occupation,  and  just  to  see  the  way  she 
regarded  a  boneless  squab  made  you  certain  that 
she  never  ate. 

In  spite  of  the  I-don't-know-how-many  (see 
ads)  New  Year's  Eve  diners  for  whom  food 
was  provided  that  night,  the  big,  busy  kitchen 
was  the  most  orderly,  shining,  spotless  place 
imaginable.  But  Miss  Gussie  Fink  was  the  neat 
est,  most  immaculate  object  in  all  that  great, 
clean  room.  There  was  that  about  her  which 
[80] 


THE  KITCHEN  SIDE  OF  THE  DOOR 

suggested  daisies  in  a  field,  if  you  know  what  I 
mean.  This  may  have  been  due  to  the  fact  that 
her  eyes  were  brown  while  her  hair  was  gold,  or 
it  may  have  been  something  about  the  way  her 
collars  fitted  high,  and  tight,  and  smooth,  or  the 
way  her  close  white  sleeves  came  down  to  meet 
her  pretty  hands,  or  the  way  her  shining  hair 
sprang  from  her  forehead.  Also  the  smooth 
creaminess  of  her  clear  skin  may  have  had  some 
thing  to  do  with  it.  But  privately,  I  think  it  was 
due  to  the  way  she  wore  her  shirtwaists.  Miss 
Gussie  Fink  could  wear  a  starched  white  shirt 
waist  under  a  close-fitting  winter  coat,  remove 
the  coat,  run  her  right  forefinger  along  her  col 
lar's  edge  and  her  left  thumb  along  the  back  of 
her  belt  and  disclose  to  the  admiring  world  a 
blouse  as  unwrinkled  and  unsullied  as  though  it 
had  just  come  from  her  own  skilful  hands  at 
the  ironing  board.  Miss  Gussie  Fink  was  so  in 
nately,  flagrantly,  beautifully  clean-looking  that 
— well,  there  must  be  a  stop  to  this  description. 
She  was  the  kind  of  girl  you'd  like  to  see  behind 
the  counter  of  your  favorite  delicatessen,  know 
ing  that  you  need  not  shudder  as  her  fingers 
touch  your  Sunday  night  supper  slices  of  tongue, 
and  Swiss  cheese,  and  ham.  No  girl  had  ever 
[81] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

dreamed  of  refusing  to  allow  Gussie  to  borrow 
her  chamois  for  a  second. 

To-night  Miss  Fink  had  come  on  at  10  P.M., 
which  was  just  two  hours  later  than  usual.  She 
knew  that  she  was  to  work  until  6  A.M.,  which 
may  have  accounted  for  the  fact  that  she  dis 
played  very  little  of  what  the  fans  call  ginger 
as  she  removed  her  hat  and  coat  and  hung  them 
on  the  hook  behind  the  desk.  The  prospect  of 
that  all-night,  eight-hour  stretch  may  have  ac 
counted  for  it,  I  say.  But  privately,  and  entre 
nous,  it  didn't.  For  here  you  must  know  of 
Heiny.  Heiny,  alas!  now  Henri. 

Until  two  weeks  ago  Henri  had  been  Heiny 
and  Miss  Fink  had  been  Kid.  When  Henri  had 
been  Heiny  he  had  worked  in  the  kitchen  at 
many  things,  but  always  with  a  loving  eye  on 
Miss  Gussie  Fink.  Then  one  wild  night  there 
had  been  a  waiters'  strike — wages  or  hours  or 
tips  or  all  three.  In  the  confusion  that  followed 
Heiny  had  been  pressed  into  service  and  a 
chopped  coat.  He  had  fitted  into  both  with  un 
believable  nicety,  proving  that  waiters  are  born, 
not  made.  Those  little  tricks  and  foibles  that 
are  characteristic  of  the  genus  waiter  seemed  to 
envelop  him  as  though  a  fairy  garment  had  fallen 

[82] 


THE  KITCHEN  SIDE  OF  THE  DOOR 

upon  his  shoulders.  The  folded  napkin  un 
der  his  left  arm  seemed  to  have  been  placed 
there  by  nature,  so  perfectly  did  it  fit  into  place. 
The  ghostly  tread,  the  little  whisking  skip,  the 
half-simper,  the  deferential  bend  that  had  in  it 
at  the  same  time  something  of  insolence,  all  were 
there;  the  very  "Yes,  miss,"  and  "Very  good, 
sir,"  rose  automatically  and  correctly  to  his 
untrained  lips.  Cinderella  rising  resplendent 
from  her  ash-strewn  hearth  was  not  more  com 
pletely  transformed  than  Heiny  in  his  role 
of  Henri.  And  with  the  transformation  Miss 
Gussie  Fink  had  been  left  behind  her  desk  dis 
consolate. 

Kitchens  are  as  quick  to  seize  upon  these 
things  and  gossip  about  them  as  drawing  rooms 
are.  And  because  Miss  Gussie  Fink  had  always 
worn  a  little  air  of  aloofness  to  all  except  Heiny, 
the  kitchen  was  the  more  eager  to  make  the  most 
of  its  morsel.  Each  turned  it  over  under  his 
tongue — Tony,  the  Crook,  whom  Miss  Fink 
had  scorned;  Francois,  the  entree  cook,  who 
often  forgot  he  was  married;  Miss  Sweeney,  the 
bar-checker,  who  was  jealous  of  Miss  Fink's 
complexion.  Miss  Fink  heard,  and  said  noth 
ing.  She  only  knew  that  there  would  be  no  dear 

[83] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

figure  waiting  for  her  when  the  night's  work 
was  done.  For  two  weeks  now  she  had  put  on 
her  hat  and  coat  and  gone  her  way  at  one  o'clock 
alone.  She  discovered  that  to  be  taken  home 
night  after  night  under  Heiny's  tender  escort 
had  taught  her  a  ridiculous  terror  of  the  streets 
at  night  now  that  she  was  without  protection. 
Always  the  short  walk  from  the  car  to  the  flat 
where  Miss  Fink  lived  with  her  mother  had  been 
a  glorious,  star-lit,  all  too  brief  moment.  Now 
it  was  an  endless  and  terrifying  trial,  a  thing 
of  shivers  and  dread,  fraught  with  horror  of 
passing  the  alley  just  back  of  Cassidey's  buffet. 
There  had  even  been  certain  little  half-serious, 
half-jesting  talks  about  the  future  into  which 
there  had  entered  the  subject  of  a  little  delicates 
sen  and  restaurant  in  a  desirable  neighborhood, 
with  Heiny  in  the  kitchen,  and  a  certain  blonde, 
neat,  white-shirtwaisted  person  in  charge  of  the 
desk  and  front  shop. 

She  and  her  mother  had  always  gone  through 
a  little  formula  upon  Miss  Fink's  return  fron. 
work.  They  never  used  it  now.  Gussie's 
mother  was  a  real  mother — the  kind  that  wakes 
up  when  you  come  home. 

"That  you,  Gussie?"  Ma  Fink  would  call 

[84] 


THE  KITCHEN  SIDE  OF  THE  DOOR 

from  the  bedroom,  at  the  sound  of  the  key  in  thr 
lock. 

"It's  me,  ma." 

"Heiny  bring  you  home?" 

"Sure,"  happily. 

"There's  a  bit  of  sausage  left,  and  some  pic 
if " 

"Oh,  I  ain't  hungry.  We  stopped  at  Joey's 
downtown  and  had  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  ham  on 
rye.  Did  you  remember  to  put  out  the  milk 
bottle?" 

For  two  weeks  there  had  been  none  of  that. 
Gussie  had  learned  to  creep  silently  into  bed, 
and  her  mother,  being  a  mother,  feigned  sleep. 

To-night  at  her  desk  Miss  Gussie  Fink  seemed 
a  shade  cooler,  more  self-contained,  and  daisylike 
than  ever.  From  somewhere  at  the  back  of  her 
head  she  could  see  that  Heiny  was  avoiding  her 
desk  and  was  using  the  services  of  the  checker 
at  the  other  end  of  the  room.  And  even  as  the 
poison  of  this  was  eating  into  her  heart  she  was 
tapping  her  forefinger  imperatively  on  the  desk 
before  her  and  saying  to  Tony,  the  Crook: 

"Down  on  the  table  with  that  tray,  Tony — 
flat.  This  may  be  a  busy  little  New  Year's  Eve, 
but  you  can't  come  any  of  your  sleight-of-hand 

[85] ' 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

stuff  on  me."  For  Tony  had  a  little  trick  of 
concealing  a  dollar-and-a-quarter  sirloin  by  the 
simple  method  of  slapping  the  platter  close  to 
the  underside  of  his  tray  and  holding  it  there 
with  long,  lean  fingers  outspread,  the  entire  bit 
of  knavery  being  concealed  in  the  folds  of  a  flow 
ing  white  napkin  in  the  hand  that  balanced  the 
tray.  Into  Tony's  eyes  there  came  a  baleful 
gleam.  His  lean  jaw  jutted  out  threateningly. 

"You're  the  real  Weissenheimer  kid,  ain't 
you?"  he  sneered.  "Never  mind.  I'll  get  you 
at  recess." 

"Some  day,"  drawled  Miss  Fink,  checking 
the  steak,  "the  house'll  get  wise  to  your  stuff  and 
then  you'll  have  to  go  back  to  the  coal  wagon. 
I  know  so  much  about  you  it's  beginning  to  make 
me  uncomfortable.  I  hate  to  carry  around  a 
burden  of  crime." 

"You're  a  sorehead  because  Heiny  turned  you 
down  and  now " 

"Move  on  there!"  snapped  Miss  Fink,  "or 
I'll  call  the  steward  to  settle  you.  Maybe  he'd 
be  interested  to  know  that  you've  been  counting 
in  the  date  and  your  waiter's  number,  and  add 
ing  'em  in  at  the  bottom  of  your  check." 

Tony,  the  Crook,  turned  and  skimmed  away 
[86] 


THE  KITCHEN  SIDE  OF  THE  DOOR 

toward  the  dining-room,  but  the  taste  of  victory 
was  bitter  in  Miss  Fink's  mouth. 

Midnight  struck.  There  came  from  the  di 
rection  of  the  Pink  Fountain  Room  a  clamor 
and  din  which  penetrated  the  thickness  of  the 
padded  doors  that  separated  the  dining-room 
from  the  kitchen  beyond.  The  sound  rose  and 
swelled  above  the  blare  of  the  orchestra.  Chairs 
scraped  on  the  marble  floor  as  hundreds  rose  to 
their  feet.  The  sound  of  clinking  glasses  be 
came  as  the  jangling  of  a  hundred  bells.  There 
came  the  sharp  spat  of  hand-clapping,  then 
cheers,  yells,  huzzas.  Through  the  swinging 
doors  at  the  end  of  the  long  passageway  Miss 
Fink  could  catch  glimpses  of  dazzling  color,  of 
shimmering  gowns,  of  bare  arms  uplifted,  of 
flowers,  and  plumes,  and  jewels,  with  the  rosy 
light  of  the  famed  pink  fountain  casting  a  gra 
cious  glow  over  all.  Once  she  saw  a  tall  young 
fellow  throw  his  arm  about  the  shoulder  of  a 
glorious  creature  at  the  next  table,  and  though 
the  door  swung  shut  before  she  could  see  it, 
Miss  Fink  knew  that  he  had  kissed  her. 

There  were  no  New  Year's  greetings  in  the 
kitchen  back  of  the  Pink  Fountain  Room.  It 
was  the  busiest  moment  in  all  that  busy  night. 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

The  heat  of  the  ovens  was  so  intense  that  it 
could  be  felt  as  far  as  Miss  Fink's  remote  cor 
ner.  The  swinging  doors  between  dining-room 
and  kitchen  were  never  still.  A  steady  stream 
of  waiters  made  for  the  steam  tables  before 
which  the  white-clad  chefs  stood  ladling,  carv 
ing,  basting,  serving,  gave  their  orders,  received 
them,  stopped  at  the  checking-desk,  and  sped 
dining-roomward  again.  Tony,  the  Crook,  was 
cursing  at  one  of  the  little  Polish  vegetable  girls 
who  had  not  been  quick  enough  about  the  gar 
nishing  of  a  salad,  and  she  was  saying,  over  and 
over  again,  in  her  thick  tongue : 

"Aw,  shod  op  yur  mout'  !n 

The  thud-thud  of  Miss  Fink's  checking-stamp 
kept  time  to  flying  footsteps,  but  even  as  her 
practised  eye  swept  over  the  tray  before  her  she 
saw  the  steward  direct  Henri  toward  her  desk, 
just  as  he  was  about  to  head  in  the  direction  of 
the  minor  checking-desk.  Beneath  downcast 
lids  she  saw  him  coming.  There  was  about 
Henri  to-night  a  certain  radiance,  a  sort  of  elec 
trical  elasticity,  so  nimble,  so  tireless,  so  exuber 
ant  was  he.  In  the  eyes  of  Miss  Gussie  Fink 
he  looked  heart-breakingly  handsome  in  his 
waiter's  uniform — handsome,  distinguished,  re- 
[88] 


THE  KITCHEN  SIDE  OF  THE  DOOR 

mote,  and  infinitely  desirable.  And  just  behind 
him,  revenge  in  his  eye,  came  Tony. 

The  flat  surface  of  the  desk  received  Henri's 
tray.  Miss  Fink  regarded  it  with  a  cold  and 
business-like  stare.  Henri  whipped  his  napkin 
from  under  his  left  arm  and  began  to  remove 
covers,  dexterously.  Oft"  came  the  first  silver, 
dome-shaped  top. 

"Guinea  hen,"  said  Henri. 

"I  seen  her  lookin'  at  you  when  you  served  the 
little  necks,"  came  from  Tony,  as  though  contin 
uing  a  conversation  begun  in  some  past  moment 
of  pause,  "and  she's  some  lovely  doll,  believe 


me." 


Miss  Fink  scanned  the  guinea  hen  thoroughly, 
but  with  a  detached  air,  and  selected  the  proper 
stamp  from  the  box  at  her  elbow.  Thump !  On 
the  broad  pasteboard  sheet  before  her  appeared 
the  figures  $1.75  after  Henri's  number. 

uThink  so?"  grinned  Henri,  and  removed 
another  cover.  "One  candied  sweets." 

"I  bet  some  day  we'll  see  you  in  the  Sunday 
papers,  Heiny,"  went  on  Tony,  "with  a  piece 
about  handsome  waiter  runnin'  away  with  beau 
tiful  s'ciety  girl.  Say,  you're  too  perfect  even 
for  a  waiter." 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

Thump !     Thirty  cents. 

"Quit  your  kiddinV  said  the  flattered  Henri. 
"One  endive,  French  dressing." 

Thump!  "Next!"  said  Miss  Fink,  dispas 
sionately,  yawned,  and  smiled  fleetingly  at  the 
entree  cook  who  wasn't  looking'her  way.  Then, 
as  Tony  slid  his  tray  toward  her:  "How's  busi 
ness,  Tony?  H'm?  How  many  two-bit  cigar 
bands  have  you  slipped  onto  your  own  private 
collection  of  nickel  straights  and  made  a  twenty- 
cent  rake-off?" 

But  there  was  a  mist  in  the  bright  brown  eyes 
as  Tony  the  Crook  turned  away  with  his  tray. 
In  spite  of  the  satisfaction  of  having  had  the 
last  word,  Miss  Fink  knew  in  her  heart  that 
Tony  had  "got  her  at  recess,"  as  he  had  said  he 
would. 

Things  were  slowing  up  for  Miss  Fink.  The 
stream  of  hurrying  waiters  was  turned  in  the  di 
rection  of  the  kitchen  bar  now.  From  now  on 
the  eating  would  be  light,  and  the  drinking 
heavy.  Miss  Fink,  with  time  hanging  heavy, 
found  herself  blinking  down  at  the  figures 
stamped  on  the  pasteboard  sheet  before  her,  and 
in  spite  of  the  blinking,  two  marks  that  never 
were  intended  for  a  checker's  report  splashed 

[90] 


THE  KITCHEN  SIDE  OF  THE  DOOR 

down  just  over  the  $1.75  after  Henri's  number. 
A  lovely  doll!  And  she  had  gazed  at  Heiny. 
Well,  that  was  to  be  expected.  No  woman  could 
gaze  unmoved  upon  Heiny.  "A  lovely  doll — " 

"Hi,  Miss  Fink!"  it  was  the  steward's  voice. 
"We  need  you  over  in  the  bar  to  help  Miss 
Sweeney  check  the  drinks.  They're  coming  too 
swift  for  her.  The  eating  will  be  light  from 
now  on;  just  a  little  something  salty  now  and 
then." 

So  Miss  Fink  dabbed  covertly  at  her  eyes  and 
betook  herself  out  of  the  atmosphere  of  roasting, 
and  broiling,  and  frying,  and  stewing;  away 
from  the  sight  of  great  copper  kettles,  and  glow 
ing  coals  and  hissing  pans,  into  a  little  world 
fragrant  with  mint,  breathing  of  orange  and 
lemon  peel,  perfumed  with  pineapple,  redolent 
of  cinnamon  and  clove,  reeking  with  things 
spirituous.  Here  the  splutter  of  the  broiler  was 
replaced  by  the  hiss  of  the  siphon,  and  the  pop- 
pop  of  corks,  and  the  tinkle  and  clink  of  ice 
against  glass. 

"Hello,  dearie!"  cooed  Miss  Sweeney,  in 
greeting,  staring  hard  at  the  suspicious  redness 
around  Miss  Fink's  eyelids.  "Ain't  you  sweet 
to  come  over  here  in  the  headache  department 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

and  help  me  out!  Here's  the  wine  list.  You'll 
prob'ly  need  it.  Say,  who  do  you  suppose  in 
vented  New  Year's  Eve?  They  must  of  had  a 
imagination  like  a  Greek  'bus  boy.  I'm  limp  as 
a  rag  now,  and  it's  only  two-thirty.  I've  got  a 
regular  cramp  in  my  wrist  from  checkin'  quarts. 
Say,  did  you  hear  about  Heiny's  crowd?" 

"No,"  said  Miss  Fink,  evenly,  and  began  to 
study  the  first  page  of  the  wine  list  under  the 
heading  "Champagnes  of  Noted  Vintages." 

"Well,"  went  on  Miss  Sweeney's  little  thin, 
malicious  voice,  "he's  fell  in  soft.  There's  a 
table  of  three,  and  they're  drinkin'  1874  Im 
perial  Crown  at  twelve  dollars  per,  like  it  was 
Waukesha  ale.  And  every  time  they  finish  a 
bottle  one  of  the  guys  pays  for  it  with  a  brand 
new  ten  and  a  brand  new  five  and  tells  Heiny  to 
keep  the  change.  Can  you  beat  it?" 

"I  hope,"  said  Miss  Fink,  pleasantly,  "that 
the  supply  of  1874  will  hold  out  till  morning. 
I'd  hate  to  see  them  have  to  come  down  to  ten 
dollar  wine.  Here  you,  Tony!  Come  back 
here !  I  may  be  a  new  hand  in  this  department 
but  I'm  not  so  green  that  you  can  put  a  gold 
label  over  on  me  as  a  yellow  label.  Notice  that 
I'm  checking  you  another  fifty  cents." 

[92] 


THE  KITCHEN  SIDE  OF  THE  DOOR 

"Ain't  he  the  grafter!"  laughed  Miss 
Sweeney.  She  leaned  toward  Miss  Fink  and 
lowered  her  voice  discreetly.  "Though  I'll  say 
this  for'm.  If  you  let  him  get  away  with  it  now 
an'  then,  he'll  split  even  with  you.  H'm?  O, 
well,  now,  don't  get  so  high  and  mighty.  The 
management  expects  it  in  this  department. 
That's  why  they  pay  starvation  wages." 

An  unusual  note  of  color  crept  into  Miss 
Gussie  Fink's  smooth  cheek.  It  deepened  and 
glowed  as  Heiny  darted  around  the  corner  and 
up  to  the  bar.  There  was  about  him  an  air  of 
suppressed  excitement  —  suppressed,  because 
Heiny  was  too  perfect  a  waiter  to  display  emo 
tion. 

"Not  another!"  chanted  the  bartenders,  in 
chorus. 

"Yes,"  answered  Henri,  solemnly,  and  waited 
while  the  wine  cellar  was  made  to  relinquish 
another  rare  jewel. 

"O,  you  Heiny!"  called  Miss  Sweeney,  "tell 
us  what  she  looks  like.  If  I  had  time  I'd  take 
a  peek  myself.  From  what  Tony  says  she  must 
look  something  like  Maxine  Elliot,  only 
brighter." 

Henri  turned.     He  saw  Miss  Fink.    A  curi- 

[93] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

ous  little  expression  came  into  his  eyes — a  Heiny 
look,  it  might  have  been  called,  as  he  regarded 
his  erstwhile  sweetheart's  unruffled  attire,  and 
clear  skin,  and  steady  eye  and  glossy  hair.  She 
was  looking  past  him  in  that  baffling,  maddening 
way  that  angry  women  have.  Some  of  Henri's 
poise  seemed  to  desert  him  in  that  moment.  He 
appeared  a  shade  less  debonair  as  he  received  the 
precious  bottle  from  the  wine  man's  hands.  He 
made  for  Miss  Fink's  desk  and  stood  watching 
her  while  she  checked  his  order.  At  the  door 
he  turned  and  looked  over  his  shoulder  at  Miss 
Sweeney. 

"Some  time,"  he  said,  deliberately,  "when 
there's  no  ladies  around,  I'll  tell  you  what  I 
think  she  looks  like." 

And  the  little  glow  of  color  in  Miss  Gussie 
Fink's  smooth  cheek  became  a  crimson  flood  that 
swept  from  brow  to  throat. 

"Oh,  well,"  snickered  Miss  Sweeney,  to  hide 
her  own  discomfiture,  "this  is  little  Heiny's  first 
New  Year's  Eve  in  the  dining-room.  Honest, 
I  b'lieve  he's  shocked.  He  don't  realize  that 
celebratin'  New  Year's  Eve  is  like  eatin'  oranges. 
You  got  to  let  go  your  dignity  t'  really  enjoy 


'em." 


[94] 


THE  KITCHEN  SIDE  OF  THE  DOOR 

Three  times  more  did  Henri  enter  and  de 
mand  a  bottle  of  the  famous  vintage,  and  each 
time  he  seemed  a  shade  less  buoyant.  His  ela 
tion  diminished  as  his  tips  grew  greater  until, 
as  he  drew  up  at  the  bar  at  six  o'clock,  he  seemed 
wrapped  in  impenetrable  gloom. 

"Them  hawgs  sousin'  yet?'*  shrilled  Miss 
Sweeney.  She  and  Miss  Fink  had  climbed  down 
from  their  high  stools,  and  were  preparing  to 
leave.  Henri  nodded,  drearily,  and  disappeared 
in  the  direction  of  the  Pink  Fountain  Room. 

Miss  Fink  walked  back  to  her  own  desk  in 
the  corner  near  the  dining-room  door.  She  took 
her  hat  off  the  hook,  and  stood  regarding  it, 
thoughtfully.  Then,  with  a  little  air  of  decision, 
she  turned  and  walked  swiftly  down  the  passage 
way  that  separated  dining-room  from  kitchen. 
Tillie,  the  scrub-woman,  was  down  on  her  hands 
and  knees  in  one  corner  of  the  passage.  She 
was  one  of  a  small  army  of  cleaners  that  had  be 
gun  the  work  of  clearing  away  the  debris  of  the 
long  night's  revel.  Miss  Fink  lifted  her  neat 
skirts  high  as  she  tip-toed  through  the  little 
soapy  pool  that  followed  in  the  wake  of  Tillie, 
the  scrub-woman.  She  opened  the  swinging 
doors  a  cautious  little  crack  and  peered  in. 

[95] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

What  she  saw  was  not  pretty.  If  the  words 
sordid  and  bacchanalian  had  been  part  of  Miss 
Fink's  vocabulary  they  would  have  risen  to  her 
lips  then.  The  crowd  had  gone.  The  great 
room  contained  not  more  than  half  a  dozen  peo 
ple.  Confetti  littered  the  floor.  Here  and  there 
a  napkin,  crushed  and  bedraggled  into  an  un 
recognizable  ball,  lay  under  a  table.  From  an 
overturned  bottle  the  dregs  were  dripping  drear 
ily.  The  air  was  stale,  stifling,  poisonous. 

At  a  little  table  in  the  center  of  the  room 
Henri's  three  were  still  drinking.  They  were 
doing  it  in  a  dreadful  and  businesslike  way. 
There  were  two  men  and  one  woman.  The 
faces  of  all  three  were  mahogany  colored  and 
expressionless.  There  was  about  them  an  awful 
sort  of  stillness.  Something  in  the  sight  seemed 
to  sicken  Gussie  Fink.  It  came  to  her  that  the 
wintry  air  outdoors  must  be  gloriously  sweet, 
and  cool,  and  clean  in  contrast  to  this.  She  was 
about  to  turn  away,  with  a  last  look  at  Heiny 
yawning  behind  his  hand,  when  suddenly  the 
woman  rose  unsteadily  to  her  feet,  balancing 
herself  with  her  finger  tips  on  the  table.  She 
raised  her  head  and  stared  across  the  room  with 
dull,  unseeing  eyes,  and  licked  her  lips  with  her 

[96] 


THE  KITCHEN  SIDE  OF  THE  DOOR 

tongue.  Then  she  turned  and  walked  half  a 
dozen  paces,  screamed  once  with  horrible  shrill 
ness,  and  crashed  to  the  floor.  She  lay  there  in 
a  still,  crumpled  heap,  the  folds  of  her  exquis 
ite  gown  rippling  to  meet  a  little  stale  pool  of 
wine  that  had  splashed  from  some  broken  glass. 
Then  this  happened.  Three  people  ran  toward 
the  woman  on  the  floor,  and  two  people  ran  past 
her  and  out  of  the  room.  The  two  who  ran 
away  were  the  men  with  whom  she  had  been 
drinking,  and  they  were  not  seen  again.  The 
three  who  ran  toward  her  were  Henri,  the 
waiter,  Miss  Gussie  Fink,  checker,  and  Tillie, 
the  scrub-woman.  Henri  and  Miss  Fink  reached 
her  first.  Tillie,  the  scrub-woman,  was  a  close 
third.  Miss  Gussie  Fink  made  as  though  to  slip 
her  arm  under  the  poor  bruised  head,  but  Henri 
caught  her  wrist  fiercely  (for  a  waiter)  and 
pulled  her  to  her  feet  almost  roughly. 

"You  leave  her  alone,  Kid,"  he  commanded. 

Miss  Gussie  Fink  stared,  indignation  choking 
her  utterance.  And  as  she  stared  the  fierce  light 
in  Henri's  eyes  was  replaced  by  the  light  of  ten 
derness. 

"We'll  tend  to  her,"  said  Henri;  "she  ain't 
fit  for  you  to  touch.  I  wouldn't  let  you  soil 

[97] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

your  hands  on  such  truck."  And  while  Gussie 
still  stared  he  grasped  the  unconscious  woman 
by  the  shoulders,  while  another  waiter  grasped 
her  ankles,  with  Tillie,  the  scrub-woman,  ar 
ranging  her  draperies  pityingly  around  her,  and 
together  they  carried  her  out  of  the  dining-room 
to  a  room  beyond. 

Back  in  the  kitchen  Miss  Gussie  Fink  was  pre 
paring  to  don  her  hat,  but  she  was  experiencing 
some  difficulty  because  of  the  way  in  which  her 
fingers  persisted  in  trembling.  Her  face  was 
turned  away  from  the  swinging  doors,  but  she 
knew  when  Henri  came  in.  He  stood  just  be 
hind  her,  in  silence.  When  she  turned  to  face 
him  she  found  Henri  looking  at  her,  and  as  he 
looked  all  the  Heiny  in  him  came  to  the  surface 
and  shone  in  his  eyes.  He  looked  long  and  si 
lently  at  Miss  Gussie  Fink — at  the  sane,  simple, 
wholesomeness  of  her,  at  her  clear  brown  eyes, 
at  her  white  forehead  from  which  the  shining 
hair  sprang  away  in  such  a  delicate  line,  at  her 
immaculately  white  shirtwaist,  and  her  smooth, 
snug-fitting  collar  that  came  up  to  the  lobes  of 
her  little  pink  ears,  at  her  creamy  skin,  at  her 
trim  belt.  He  looked  as  one  who  would  rest 
his  eyes — eyes  weary  of  gazing  upon  satins,  and 

[98] 


THE  KITCHEN  SIDE  OF  THE  DOOR 

jewels,  and  rouge,  and  carmine,  and  white  arms, 
and  bosoms. 

"Gee,  Kid!  You  look  good  to  me,"  he 
said. 

"Do  I — Heiny?"  whispered  Miss  Fink. 

"Believe  me!"  replied  Heiny,  fervently.  "It 
was  just  a  case  of  swelled  head.  Forget  it,  will 
you?  Say,  that  gang  in  there  to-night — why, 
say,  that  gang " 

"I  know,"  interrupted  Miss  Fink. 

"Going  home?"  asked  Heiny. 

"Yes." 

"Suppose  we  have  a  bite  of  something  to  eat 
first,"  suggested  Heiny. 

Miss  Fink  glanced  round  the  great,  deserted 
kitchen.  As  she  gazed  a  little  expression  of  dis 
gust  wrinkled  her  pretty  nose — the  nose  that 
perforce  had  sniffed  the  scent  of  so  many  rare 
and  exquisite  dishes. 

"Sure,"  she  assented,  joyously,  "but  not  here. 
Let's  go  around  the  corner  to  Joey's.  I  could 
get  real  chummy  with  a  cup  of  good  hot  coffee 
and  a  ham  on  rye." 

He  helped  her  on  with  her  coat,  and  if  his 
hands  rested  a  moment  on  her  shoulders  who 
was  there  to  see  it?  A  few  sleepy,  wan-eyed 

[99] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

waiters  and  Tillie,  the  scrub-woman.  Together 
they  started  toward  the  door.  Tillie,  the  scrub 
woman,  had  worked  her  wet  way  out  of  the  pas 
sage  and  into  the  kitchen  proper.  She  and  her 
pail  blocked  their  way.  She  was  sopping  up  a 
soapy  pool  with  an  all-encompassing  gray  scrub- 
rag.  Heiny  and  Gussie  stopped  a  moment  per 
force  to  watch  her.  It  was  rather  fascinating 
to  see  how  that  artful  scrub-rag  craftily  closed 
in  upon  the  soapy  pool  until  it  engulfed  it.  Tillie 
sat  back  on  her  knees  to  wring  out  the  water- 
soaked  rag.  There  was  something  pleasing  in 
the  sight.  TilhVs  blue  calico  was  faded  white 
in  patches  and  at  the  knees  it  was  dark  with 
soapy  water.  Her  shoes  were  turned  up  ludi 
crously  at  the  toes,  as  scrub-women's  shoes  al 
ways  are.  Tillie's  thin  hair  was  wadded  back 
into  a  moist  knob  at  the  back  and  skewered  with 
a  gray-black  hairpin.  From  her  parboiled, 
shriveled  fingers  to  her  ruddy,  perspiring  face 
there  was  nothing  of  grace  or  beauty  about  Til- 
lie.  And  yet  Heiny  found  something  pleasing 
there.  He  could  not  have  told  you  why,  so  how 
can  I,  unless  to  say  that  it  was,  perhaps,  for 
much  the  same  reason  that  we  rejoice  in  the 
wholesome,  safe,  reassuring  feel  of  the  gray 
[100] 


THE  KITCHEN  SIDE  OF 'THE 

woolen  blanket  on  our  bed  when  we  wake  from 
a  horrid  dream. 

"A  Happy  New  Year  to  you,"  said  Heiny 
gravely,  and  took  his  hand  out  of  his  pocket. 

Tillie's  moist  right  hand  closed  over  some 
thing.  She  smiled  so  that  one  saw  all  her  broken 
black  teeth. 

"The  same  t'  you,"  said  Tillie.  "The  same 
t'  you." 


[101] 


VI 
ONE  OF  THE  OLD  GIRLS 

A  LL  of  those  ladies  who  end  their  conversa- 
tion  with  you  by  wearily  suggesting  that 
you  go  down  to  the  basement  to  find  what  you 
seek,  do  not  receive  a  meager  seven  dollars  a 
week  as  a  reward  for  their  efforts.  Neither  are 
they  all  obliged  to  climb  five  weary  flights  of 
stairs  to  reach  the  dismal  little  court  room 
which  is  their  home,  and  there  are  several  who 
need  not  walk  thirty-three  blocks  to  save  car 
fare,  only  to  spend  wretched  evenings  wash 
ing  out  handkerchiefs  and  stockings  in  the 
cracked  little  washbowl,  while  one  ear  is 
cocked  for  the  stealthy  tread  of  the  Lady  Who 
Objects. 

The  earnest  compiler  of  working  girls'  bud 
gets  would  pass  Effie  Bauer  hurriedly  by.  Effie's 
budget  bulged  here  and  there  with  such  pathetic 
items  as  hand-embroidered  blouses,  thick  club 
steaks,  and  parquet  tickets  for  Maude  Adams. 
That  you  may  visualize  her  at  once  I  may  say 
that  Effie  looked  twenty-four — from  the  rear 
[102] 


ONE  OF  THE  OLD  GIRLS 

(all  women  do  in  these  days  of  girlish  simplicity 
in  hats  and  tailor-mades)  ;  her  skirts  never 
sagged,  her  shirtwaists  were  marvels  of  plain 
ness  and  fit,  and  her  switch  had  cost  her  sixteen 
dollars,  wholesale  (a  lady  friend  in  the  busi 
ness).  Oh,  there  was  nothing  tragic  about 
Effie.  She  had  a  plump,  assured  style,  a  keen 
blue  eye,  a  gift  of  repartee,  and  a  way  of  doing 
her  hair  so  that  the  gray  at  the  sides  scarcely 
showed  at  all.  Also  a  knowledge  of  corsets  that 
had  placed  her  at  the  buying  end  of  that  impor 
tant  department  at  Spiegel's.  Effie  knew  to  the 
minute  when  coral  beads  went  out  and  pearl 
beads  came  in,  and  just  by  looking  at  her 
blouses  you  could  tell  when  Cluny  died  and 
Irish  was  born.  Meeting  Effie  on  the  street, 
you  would  have  put  her  down  as  one  of  the 
many  well-dressed,  prosperous-looking  women 
shoppers — if  yon  hadn't  looked  at  her  feet. 
Veteran  clerks  and  policemen  cannot  disguise 
their  feet. 

Effie  Bauer's  reason  for  not  marrying  when 
a  girl  was  the  same  as  that  of  most  of  the  ca 
pable,  wise-eyed,  good-looking  women  one  finds 
at  the  head  of  departments.  She  had  not  had  a 
chance.  If  Effie  had  been  as  attractive  at  twenty 

[103] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

as  she  was  at — there,  we  won't  betray  confi 
dences.  Still,  it  is  certain  that  if  Effie  had  been 
as  attractive  when  a  young  girl  as  she  was  when 
an  old  girl,  she  never  would  have  been  an  old 
girl  and  head  of  Spiegel's  corset  department  at  a 
salary  of  something  very  comfortably  over  one 
hundred  and  twenty-five  a  month  (and  commis 
sions).  Effie  had  improved  with  the  years,  and 
ripened  with  experience.  She  knew  her  value. 
At  twenty  she  had  been  pale,  anaemic  and  bony, 
with  a  startled-faun  manner  and  bad  teeth. 
Years  of  saleswomanship  had  broadened  her, 
mentally  and  physically,  until  she  possessed  a 
wide  and  varied  knowledge  of  that  great  and 
diversified  subject  known  as  human  nature.  She 
knew  human  nature  all  the  way  from  the  fifty- 
nine-cent  girdles  to  the  twenty-five-dollar  made- 
to-orders.  And  if  the  years  had  brought,  among 
other  things,  a  certain  hardness  about  the  jaw 
and  a  line  or  two  at  the  corners  of  the  eyes,  it 
was  not  surprising.  You  can't  rub  up  against 
the  sharp  edges  of  this  world  and  expect  to  come 
out  without  a  scratch  or  so. 

So  much  for  Effie.    Enter  the  hero.    Webster 
defines  a  hero  in  romance  as  the  person  who  has 
the  principal  share  in  the  transactions  related. 
[104] 


ONE  OF  THE  OLD  GIRLS 

He  says  nothing  which  would  debar  a  gentleman 
just  because  he  may  be  a  trifle  bald  and  in  the 
habit  of  combing  his  hair  over  the  thin  spot,  and 
he  raises  no  objections  to  a  matter  of  thickness 
and  color  in  the  region  of  the  back  of  the  neck. 
Therefore  Gabe  I.  Marks  qualifies.  Gabe  was 
the  gentleman  about  whom  Effie  permitted  her 
self  to  be  guyed.  He  came  to  Chicago  on  busi 
ness  four  times  a  year,  and  he  always  took  Effie 
to  the  theater,  and  to  supper  afterward.  On 
those  occasions,  Effie's  gown,  wrap  and  hat  were 
as  correct  in  texture,  lines,  and  paradise  aigrettes 
as  those  of  any  of  her  non-working  sisters  about 
her.  On  the  morning  following  these  excursions 
into  Lobsterdom,  Effie  would  confide  to  her 
friend,  Miss  Weinstein,  of  the  lingeries  and 
negligees : 

"I  was  out  with  my  friend,  Mr.  Marks,  last 
evening.  We  went  to  Rector's  after  the  show. 
Oh,  well,  it  takes  a  New  Yorker  to  know  how. 
Honestly,  I  feel  like  a  queen  when  I  go  out  with 
him.  H'm?  Oh,  nothing  like  that,  girlie.  I 
never  could  see  that  marriage  thing.  Just  good 
friends.'1 

Gabe  had  been  coming  to  Chicago  four  times 
a  year  for  six  years.  Six  times  four  are  twenty- 

[105] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

four.  And  one  is  twenty-five.  Gabe's  last  visit 
made  the  twenty-fifth. 

"Well,  Effie,"  Gabe  said  when  the  evening's 
entertainment  had  reached  the  restaurant  stage, 
"this  is  our  twenty-fifth  anniversary.  It's  our 
silver  wedding,  without  the  silver  and  the  wed 
ding.  We'll  have  a  bottle  of  champagne.  That 
makes  it  almost  legal.  And  then  suppose  we 
finish  up  by  having  the  wedding.  The  silver 
can  be  omitted." 

Effie  had  been  humming  with  the  orchestra, 
holding  a  lobster  claw  in  one  hand  and  wielding 
the  little  two-pronged  fork  with  the  other.  She 
dropped  claw,  fork,  and  popular  air  to  stare 
open-mouthed  at  Gabe.  Then  a  slow,  uncertain 
smile  crept  about  her  lips,  although  her  eyes 
were  still  unsmiling. 

"Stop  your  joking,  Gabie,"  she  said.  "Some 
day  you'll  say  those  things  to  the  wrong  lady, 
and  then  you'll  have  a  breach-of-promise  suit 
on  your  hands." 

"This  ain't  no  joke,  Effie,"  Gabe  had  replied. 
"Not  with  me  it  ain't.  As  long  as  my  mother 
selig  lived  I  wouldn't  ever  marry  a  Goy.  It 
would  have  broken  her  heart.  I  was  a  good 
son  to  her,  and  good  sons  make  good  husbands, 
[106] 


ONE  OF  THE  OLD  GIRLS 

they  say.  Well,  Effie,  you  want  to  try  it 
out?" 

There  was  something  almost  solemn  in  Effie's 
tone  and  expression.  "Gabie,"  she  said  slowly, 
''you're  the  first  man  that's  ever  asked  me  to 
marry  him." 

"That  goes  double,"  answered  Gabe. 

"Thanks,"  said  Effie.    "That  makes  it  all  the 


nicer." 


"Then — — "  Gabe's  face  was  radiant.  But 
Effie  shook  her  head  quickly. 

"You're  just  twenty  years  late,"  she  said. 

"Late  I"  expostulated  Gabe.  "I  ain't  no  dead 
one  yet." 

Effie  pushed  her  plate  away  with  a  little  air 
of  decision,  folded  her  plump  arms  on  the  table, 
and,  leaning  forward,  looked  Gabe  I.  Marks 
squarely  in  the  eyes. 

"Gabie,"  she  said  gently,  "I'll  bet  you  haven't 
got  a  hundred  dollars  in  the  bank " 

"But "  interrupted  Gabe. 

"Wait  a  minute.  I  know  you  boys  on  the 
road.  Besides  your  diamond  scarf  pin  and  your 
ring  and  watch,  have  you  got  a  cent  over  your 
salary?  Nix.  You  carry  just  about  enough 
insurance  to  bury  you,  don't  you  ?  You're  fifty 
[107] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

years  old  if  you're  a  minute,  Gabie,  and  if  I  ain't 
mistaken  you'd  have  a  pretty  hard  time  of  it  get 
ting  ten  thousand  dollars'  insurance  after  the 
doctors  got  through  with  you.  Twenty-five  years 
of  pinochle  and  poker  and  the  fat  of  the  land 
haven't  added  up  any  bumps  in  the  old  stocking 
under  the  mattress." 

"Say,  looka  here,"  objected  Gabe,  more  red- 
faced  than  usual,  "I  didn't  know  !  was  propos 
ing  to  no  Senatorial  investigating  committee. 
Say,  you  talk  about  them  foreign  noblemen  be 
ing  mercenary !  Why,  they  ain't  in  it  with  you 
girls  to-day.  A  feller  is  got  to  propose  to  you 
with  his  bank  book  in  one  hand  and  a  bunch  of 
life-insurance  policies  in  the  other.  You're  right; 
I  ain't  saved  much.  But  Ma  selig  always  had 
everything  she  wanted.  Say,  when  a  man  mar 
ries  it's  different.  He  begins  to  save." 

'There!"  said  Effie  quickly.  "That's  just  it. 
Twenty  years  ago  I'd  have  been  glad  and  will 
ing  to  start  like  that,  saving  and  scrimping  and 
loving  a  man,  and  looking  forward  to  the  time 
when  four  figures  showed  up  in  the  bank  account 
where  but  three  bloomed  before.  I've  got  what 
they  call  the  home  instinct.  Give  me  a  yard  or 
so  of  cretonne,  and  a  photo  of  my  married  sister 
[108] 


ONE  OF  THE  OLD  GIRLS 

down  in  Iowa,  and  I  can  make  even  a  boarding- 
house  inside  bedroom  look  like  a  place  where  a 
human  being  could  live.  If  I  had  been  as  wise 
at  twenty  as  I  am  now,  Gabie,  I  could  have  mar 
ried  any  man  I  pleased.  But  I  was  what  they 
call  capable.  And  men  aren't  marrying  capable 
girls.  They  pick  little  yellow-headed,  blue-eyed 
idiots  that  don't  know  a  lamb  stew  from  a  soup 
bone  when  they  see  it.  Well,  Mr.  Man  didn't 
show  up,  and  I  started  in  to  clerk  at  six  per. 
I'm  earning  as  much  as  you  are  now.  More. 
Now,  don't  misunderstand  me,  Gabe.  I'm  not 
throwing  bouquets  at  myself.  I'm  ;ot  thai  kind 
of  a  girl.  But  I  could  sell  a  Style  743  Slimshape 
to  the  Venus  de  Milo  herself.  The  Lord  knows 
she  needed  one,  with  those  hips  of  hers.  I 
worked  my  way  up,  alone.  I'm  used  to  it.  I 
like  the  excitement  down  at  the  store.  I'm  used 
to  luxuries.  I  guess  if  I  was  a  man  I'd  be  the 
kind  they  call  a  good  provider — the  kind  that 
opens  wine  every  time  there's  half  an  excuse  for 
it,  and  when  he  dies  his  widow  has  to  take  in 
boarders.  And,  Gabe,  after  you've  worn  tai 
lored  suits  every  year  for  a  dozen  years,  you 
can't  go  back  to  twenty-five-dollar  ready-mades 
and  be  happy." 

[109] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

"You  could  if  you  loved  a  man,"  said  Gabe 
stubbornly. 

The  hard  lines  around  the  jaw  and  the  ex 
perienced  lines  about  the  eyes  seemed  suddenly 
to  stand  our  on  Effie's  face. 

"Love's  young  dream  is  all  right.  But  you've 
reached  the  age  when  you  let  your  cigar  ash 
dribble  down  onto  your  vest.  Now  me,  I've  got 
a  kimono  nature  but  a  straight-front  job,  and  it's 
kept  me  young.  Young!  I've  got  to  be.  That's 
my  stock  in  trade.  You  see,  Gabie,  we're  just 
twenty  years  late,  both  of  us.  They're  not  go 
ing  to  boost  your  salary.  These  days  they're 
looking  for  kids  on  the  road — live  wires,  with  a 
lot  of  nerve  and  a  quick  come-back.  They  don't 
want  old-timers.  Why,  say,  Gabie,  if  I  was  to 
tell  you  what  I  spend  in  face  powder  and  toilette 
water  and  hairpins  alone,  you'd  think  I'd  made 
a  mistake  and  given  you  the  butcher  bill  instead. 
And  I'm  no  professional  beauty,  either.  Only 
it  takes  money  to  look  cleaned  and  pressed  in 
this  town." 

In  the  seclusion  of  the  cafe  corner,  Gabe  laid 

one  plump,  highly  manicured  hand  on  Effie's 

smooth  arm.    "You  wouldn't  need  to  stay  young 

for  me,  Effie.    I  like  you  just  as  you  are,  with- 

[no] 


I    GUESS    I    HAVEN  T    REFUSED    YOU    THE    WAY    THE    DAMES 
IN     THE   NOVELS   DO  IT" 


ONE  OF  THE  OLD  GIRLS 

out  the  powder,  or  the  toilette  water,  or  the  hair 
pins." 

His  red,  good-natured  face  had  an  expression 
upon  it  that  was  touchingly  near  patient  resigna 
tion  as  he  looked  up  into  Effie's  sparkling  counte 
nance.  "You  never  looked  so  good  to  me  as 
you  do  this  minute,  old  girl.  And  if  the  day 
comes  when  you  get  lonesome — or  change  your 
mind — or " 

Effie  shook  her  head,  and  started  to  draw  on 
her  long  white  gloves.  "I  guess  I  haven't  re 
fused  you  the  way  the  dames  in  the  novels  do 
it.  Maybe  it's  because  I've  had  so  little  prac 
tice.  But  I  want  to  say  this,  Gabe.  Thank  God 
I  don't  have  to  die  knowing  that  no  man  ever 
wanted  me  to  be  his  wife.  Honestly,  I'm  that 
grateful  that  I'd  marry  you  in  a  minute  if  I 
didn't  like  you  so  well." 

"I'll  be  back  in  three  months,  like  always," 
was  all  that  Gabe  said.  "I  ain't  going  to  write. 
When  I  get  here  we'll  just  take  in  a  show,  and 
the  younger  you  look  the  better  I'll  like  it." 

But  on  the  occasion  of  Gabe's  spring  trip  he 
encountered  a  statuesque  blonde  person  where 
Effie  had  been  wont  to  reign. 

"Miss — er  Bauer  out  of  town?" 
[in] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

The  statue  melted  a  trifle  in  the  sunshine  of 
Gabe's  ingratiating  smile. 

"Miss  Bauer's  ill,"  the  statue  informed  him, 
using  a  heavy  Eastern  accent.  "Anything  I  can 
do  for  you?  I'm  taking  her  place." 

"Why — ah — not  exactly;  no,"  said  Gabe. 
"Just  a  temporary  indisposition,  I  suppose?" 

"Well,  you  wouldn't  hardly  call  it  that,  seeing 
that  she's  been  sick  with  typhoid  for  seven 
weeks." 

"Typhoid!"  shouted  Gabe. 

"While  I'm  not  in  the  habit  of  asking  gentle 
men  their  names,  I'd  like  to  inquire  if  yours  hap 
pens  to  be  Marks — Gabe  I.  Marks?" 

"Sure,"  said  Gabe.     "That's  me." 

"Miss  Bauer's  nurse  telephones  down  last 
week  that  if  a  gentleman  named  Marks — Gabe 
I.  Marks — drops  in  and  inquires  for  Miss  Bauer, 
I'm  to  tell  him  that  she's  changed  her  mind." 

On  the  way  from  Spiegel's  corset  department 
to  the  car,  Gabe  stopped  only  for  a  bunch  of 
violets.  Effie's  apartment  house  reached,  he  sent 
up  his  card,  the  violets,  and  a  message  that  the 
gentleman  was  waiting.  There  came  back  a 
reply  that  sent  Gabie  up  before  the  violets  were 
relieved  of  their  first  layer  of  tissue  paper. 

[112] 


ONE  OF  THE  OLD  GIRLS 

Effie  was  sitting  in  a  deep  chair  by  the  win 
dow,  a  flowered  quilt  bunched  about  her  shoul 
ders,  her  feet  in  gray  knitted  bedroom  slip 
pers.  She  looked  every  minute  of  her  age,  and 
she  knew  it,  and  didn't  care.  The  hand  that  she 
held  out  to  Gabe  was  a  limp,  white,  fleshless 
thing  that  seemed  to  bear  no  relation  to  the 
plump,  firm  member  that  Gabe  had  pressed  on 
so  many  previous  occasions. 

Gabe  stared  at  this  pale  wraith  in  a  moment 
of  alarm  and  dismay.  Then: 

"You're  looking — great!"  he  stammered. 
"Great!  Nobody'd  believe  you'd  been  sick  a 
minute.  Guess  you've  just  been  stalling  for  a 
beauty  rest,  what?" 

Effie  smiled  a  tired  little  smile,  and  shook  her 
head  slowly. 

"You're  a  good  kid,  Gabie,  to  lie  like  that  just 
to  make  me  feel  good.  But  my  nurse  left  yes 
terday  and  I  had  my  first  real  squint  at  myself 
in  the  mirror.  She  wouldn't  let  me  look  while 
she  was  here.  After  what  I  saw  staring  back  at 
me  from  that  glass  a  whole  ballroom  full  of 
French  courtiers  whispering  sweet  nothings  in 
my  ear  couldn't  make  me  believe  that  I  look  like 
anything  but  a  hunk  of  Roquefort,  green  spots 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

included.  When  I  think  of  how  my  clothes 
won't  fit  it  makes  me  shiver." 

"Oh,  you'll  soon  be  back  at  the  store  as  good 
as  new.  They  fatten  up  something  wonderful 
after  typhoid.  Why,  I  had  a  friend " 

"Did  you  get  my  message?"  interrupted  Effie. 

"I  was  only  talking  to  hide  my  nervousness," 
said  Gabe,  and  started  forward.  But  Effie 
waved  him  away. 

"Sit  down,"  she  said.  "IVe  got  something 
to  say."  She  looked  thoughtfully  down  at  one 
shining  finger  nail.  Her  lower  lip  was  caught 
between  her  teeth.  When  she  looked  up  again 
her  eyes  were  swimming  in  tears.  Gabe  started 
forward  again.  Again  Effie  waved  him  away. 

"It's  all  right,  Gabie.  I  don't  blubber  as  a 
rule.  This  fever  leaves  you  as  weak  as  a  rag, 
and  ready  to  cry  if  any  one  says  'Boo !'  I've  been 
doing  some  high-pressure  thinking  since  nursie 
left.  Had  plenty  of  time  to  do  it  in,  sitting  here 
by  this  window  all  day.  My  land!  I  never 
knew  there  was  so  much  time.  There's  been 
days  when  I  haven't  talked  to  a  soul,  except  the 
nurse  and  the  chambermaid.  Lonesome !  Say, 
the  amount  of  petting  I  could  stand  would  sur 
prise  you.  Of  course,  my  nurse  was  a  perfectly 


ONE  OF  THE  OLD  GIRLS 

good  nurse — at  twenty-five  per.  But  I  was  just 
a  case  to  her.  You  can't  expect  a  nurse  to  ooze 
sympathy  over  an  old  maid  with  the  fever.  I 
tell  you  I  was  dying  to  have  some  one  say 
'Sh-sh-sh  !'  when  there  was  a  noise,  just  to  show 
they  were  interested.  Whenever  I'd  moan  the 
nurse  would  come  over  and  stick  a  thermometer 
in  my  mouth  and  write  something  down  on  a 
chart.  The  boys  and  girls  at  the  store  sent 
flowers.  They'd  have  done  the  same  if  I'd  died. 
When  the  fever  broke  I  just  used  to  lie  there 
and  dream,  not  feeling  anything  in  particular, 
and  not  caring  much  whether  it  was  day  or 
night.  Know  what  I  mean?" 

Gabie  shook  a  sympathetic  head. 

There  was  a  little  silence.  Then  Effie  went 
on.  **I  used  to  think  I  was  pretty  smart,  earn 
ing  my  own  good  living,  dressing  as  well  as  the 
next  one,  and  able  to  spend  my  vacation  in  At 
lantic  City  if  I  wanted  to.  I  didn't  know  I  was 
missing  anything.  But  while  I  was  sick  I  got  to 
wishing  that  there  was  somebody  that  belonged 
to  me.  Somebody  to  worry  about  me,  and  to 
sit  up  nights — somebody  that  just  naturally  felt 
they  had  to  come  tiptoeing  into  my  room 
every  three  or  four  minutes  to  see  if  I  was 

[us] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

sleeping,  or  had  enough  covers  on,  or  wanted 
a  drink,  or  something.  I  got  to  thinking  what 
it  would  have  been  like  if  I  had  a  hus 
band  and  a — home.  You'll  think  I'm  daffy, 
maybe." 

Gabie  took  Effie's  limp  white  hand  in  his,  and 
stroked  it  gently.  Effie's  face  was  turned  away 
from  him,  toward  the  noisy  street. 

"I  used  to  imagine  how  he'd  come  home  at 
six,  stamping  his  feet,  maybe,  and  making  a  lot 
of  noise  the  way  men  do.  And  then  he'd  re 
member,  and  come  creaking  up  the  steps,  and 
he'd  stick  his  head  in  at  the  door  in  the  funny, 
awkward,  pathetic  way  men  have  in  a  sick  room. 
And  he'd  say,  'How's  the  old  girl  to-night?  I'd 
better  not  come  near  you  now,  puss,  because  I'll 
bring  the  cold  with  me.  Been  lonesome  for  your 
old  man?' 

"And  I'd  say,  'Oh,  I  don't  care  how  cold  you 
are,  dear.  The  nurse  is  downstairs,  getting  my 
supper  ready.' 

"And  then  he'd  come  tiptoeing  over  to  my 
bed,  and  stoop  down,  and  kiss  me,  and  his  face 
would  be  all  cold,  and  rough,  and  his  mustache 
would  be  wet,  and  he'd  smell  out-doorsy  and 
smoky,  the  way  husbands  do  when  they  come  in. 
[116] 


ONE  OF  THE  OLD  GIRLS 

And  I'd  reach  up  and  pat  his  cheek  and  say, 
'You  need  a  shave,  old  man.' 

"  *I  know  it,'  he'd  say,  rubbing  his  cheek  up 
against  mine. 

"  'Hurry  up  and  wash,  now.  Supper'll  be 
ready.1 

"  'Where  are  the  kids?'  he'd  ask.  The  house 
is  as  quiet  as  the  grave.  Hurry  up  and  get  well, 
kid.  It's  darn  lonesome  without  you  at  the  table, 
and  the  children's  manners  are  getting  something 
awful,  and  I  never  can  find  my  shirts.  Lordy, 
I  guess  we  won't  celebrate  when  you  get  up! 
Can't  you  eat  a  little  something  nourishing  for 
supper — beefsteak,  or  a  good  plate  of  soup,  or 
something  ?' 

"Men  are  like  that,  you  know.  So  I'd  say 
then :  'Run  along,  you  old  goose !  You'll  be  sug 
gesting  sauerkraut  and  wieners  next.  Don't  you 
let  Millie  have  any  marmalade  to-night.  She's 
got  a  spoiled  stomach.' 

"And  then  he'd  pound  off  down  the  hall  to 
wash  up,  and  I'd  shut  my  eyes,  and  smile  to 
myself,  and  everything  would  be  all  right,  be 
cause  he  was  home." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Effie's  eyes  were 
closed.  But  two  great  tears  stole  out  from  be- 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

neath  each  lid  and  coursed  their  slow  way  down 
her  thin  cheeks.  She  did  not  raise  her  hand  to 
wipe  them  away. 

Gabie's  other  hand  reached  over  and  met  the 
one  that  already  clasped  Effie's. 

"Effie,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  was  as  hoarse 
as  it  was  gentle. 

"H'm?"  said  Effie. 

"Will  you  marry  me?" 

"I  shouldn't  wonder,"  replied  Effie,  opening 
her  eyes.  uNo,  don't  kiss  me.  You  might  catch 
something.  But  say,  reach  up  and  smooth  my 
hair  away  from  my  forehead,  will  you,  and  call 
me  a  couple  of  fool  names.  I  don't  care  how 
clumsy  you  are  about  it.  I  could  stand  an  aw 
ful  fuss  being  made  over  me,  without  being 
spoiled  any." 

Three  weeks  later  Effie  was  back  at  the  store. 
Her  skirt  didn't  fit  in  the  back,  and  the  little 
hollow  places  in  her  cheeks  did  not  take  the  cus 
tomary  dash  of  rouge  as  well  as  when  they  had 
been  plumper.  She  held  a  little  impromptu  re 
ception  that  extended  down  as  far  as  the  lin 
geries  and  up  as  far  as  the  rugs.  The  old  spar 
kle  came  back  to  Effie's  eye.  The  old  assurance 
and  vigor  seemed  to  return.  By  the  time  that 
["81 


ONE  OF  THE  OLD  GIRLS 

Miss  Weinstein,  of  the  French  lingeries,  arrived, 
breathless,  to  greet  her  Effie  was  herself  again. 

"Well,  if  you're  not  a  sight  for  sore  eyes, 
dearie,"  exclaimed  Miss  Weinstein.  "My  good 
ness,  how  grand  and  thin  you  are !  I'd  be  will 
ing  to  take  a  course  in  typhoid  myself,  if  I 
thought  I  could  lose  twenty-five  pounds." 

"I  haven't  a  rag  that  fits  me,"  Effie  announced 
proudly. 

Miss  Weinstein  lowered  her  voice  discreetly. 
"Dearie,  can  you  come  down  to  my  department 
for  a  minute?  We're  going  to  have  a  sale  on 
imported  lawnjerie  blouses,  slightly  soiled,  from 
nine  to  eleven  to-morrow.  There's  one  you  posi 
tively  must  see.  Hand-embroidered,  Irish  mo 
tifs,  and  eyeleted  from  soup  to  nuts,  and  only 
eight-fifty." 

"I've  got  a  fine  chance  of  buying  hand-made 
waists,  no  matter  how  slightly  soiled,"  Effie 
made  answer,  "with  a  doctor  and  nurse's  bill  as 
long  as  your  arm." 

"Oh,  run  along!"  scoffed  Miss  Weinstein. 
"A  person  would  think  you  had  a  husband  to  get 
a  grouch  every  time  you  get  reckless  to  the  ex 
tent  of  a  new  waist.  You're  your  own  boss. 
And  you  know  your  credit's  good.  Honestly, 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

it  would  be  a  shame  to  let  this  chance  slip. 
You're  not  getting  tight  in  your  old  age,  arc 
you?" 

"N-no,"  faltered  Effie,  "but " 

"Then  come  on,"  urged  Miss  Weinstein  ener 
getically.  "And  be  thankful  you  haven't  got  a 
man  to  raise  the  dickens  when  the  bill  comes  in." 

"Do  you  mean  that?"  asked  Effie  slowly,  fix 
ing  Miss  Weinstein  with  a  thoughtful  eye. 

"Surest  thing  you  know.  Say,  girlie,  let's  go 
over  to  Klein's  for  lunch  this  noon.  They  have 
pot  roast  with  potato  pfannkuchen  on  Tuesdays, 
and  we  can  split  an  order  between  us." 

"Hold  that  waist  till  to-morrow,  will  you?" 
said  Effie.  "I've  made  an  arrangement  with  a 
— friend  that  might  make  new  clothes  impos 
sible  just  now.  But  I'm  going  to  wire  my  party 
that  the  arrangement  is  all  off.  I've  changed 
my  mind.  I  ought  to  get  an  answer  to-morrow. 
Did  you  say  it  was  a  thirty-six?" 


[120] 


VII 

MAYMEYS  FROM  CUBA 

T^HERE  is  nothing  new  in  this.  It  has  all 
been  done  before.  But  tell  me,  what  is 
new?  Does  the  aspiring  and  perspiring  summer 
vaudeville  artist  flatter  himself  that  his  stuff  is 
going  big?  Then  does  the  stout  man  with  the 
oyster-colored  eyelids  in  the  first  row,  left,  turn 
his  bullet  head  on  his  fat-creased  neck  to  remark 
huskily  to  his  companion: 

"The  hook  for  him.  R-r-r-rotten !  That  last 
one  was  an  old  Weber'n  Fields'  gag.  They  dis 
carded  it  back  in  '91.  Say,  the  good  ones  is  all 
dead,  anyhow.  Take  old  Salvini,  now,  and  Dan 
Rice.  Them  was  actors.  Come  on  out  and 
have  something.'' 

Does  the  short-story  writer  felicitate  himself 
upon  having  discovered  a  rare  species  in  hu 
manity's  garden?  The  Blase  Reader  flips  the 
pages  between  his  fingers,  yawns,  stretches,  and 
remarks  to  his  wife: 

"That's  a  clean  lift  from  Kipling — or  is  it 
Conan  Doyle?  Anyway,  I've  read  something 

[121] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

just  like  it  before.  Say,  kid,  guess  what  these 
magazine  guys  get  for  a  full  page  ad.?  Nix. 
That's  just  like  a  woman.  Three  thousand 
straight.  Fact." 

To  anticipate  the  delver  into  the  past  it  may 
be  stated  that  the  plot  of  this  one  originally  ap 
peared  in  the  Eternal  Best  Seller,  under  the 
heading,  "He  Asked  You  For  Bread,  and  Ye 
Gave  Him  a  Stone."  There  may  be  those  who 
could  not  have  traced  my  plagiarism  to  its 
source. 

Although  the  Book  has  had  an  unprecedent- 
edly  long  run  it  is  said  to  be  less  widely  read 
than  of  yore. 

Even  with  this  preparation  I  hesitate  to 
confess  that  this  is  the  story  of  a  hungry  girl  in 
a  big  city.  Well,  now,  wait  a  minute.  Con 
ceding  that  it  has  been  done  by  every  scribbler 
from  tyro  to  best  peller  expert,  you  will  acknowl 
edge  that  there  is  the  possibility  of  a  fresh  view 
point — twist — what  is  it  the  sporting  editors 
call  it?  Oh,  yes — slant.  There  is  the  possi 
bility  of  getting  a  new  slant  on  an  old  idea. 
That  may  serve  to  deflect  the  line  of  the  deadly 
parallel. 
/Just  off  State  Street  there  is  a  fruiterer  and 

\  [I22] 


MAYMEYS  FROM  CUBA 

importer  who  ought  to  be- arrested  for  cruelty./ 
His  window  is  the  most  fascinating  and  the  most 
heartless  in  Chicago.  A  line  of  open-mouthed, 
wide-eyed  gazers  is  always  to  be  found  before 
it.  Despair,  wonder,  envy,  and  rebellion  smol 
der  in  the  eyes  of  those  gazers.  No  shop  win 
dow  show  should  be  so  diabolically  set  forth  as 
to  arouse  such  sensations  in  the  breast  of  the  be 
holder.  It  is  a  work  of  art,  that  window;  a 
breeder  of  anarchism,  a  destroyer  of  content 
ment,  a  second  feast  of  Tantalus.  /It  boasts 
peaches,  dewy  and  golden,  when  peaches  have 
no.  right  tp  b.e^plethoric/purple  bunches  of  Eng 
lish  hothouse  grapes  are  there  to  taunt  the  ten- 
dollar-a-week  clerk  whose  sick  wife  should  be  in 
the  hospital;  strawberries  glow  therein  when 
shortcake  is  a  last  summer's  memory,  and  forced 
cucumbers  remind  us  that  we  are  taking  ours  in 
the  form  of  dill  pickles.  There  is,  perhaps,  a 
choice  head  of  cauliflower,  so  exquisite  in  its 
ivory  and  green  perfection  as  to  be  fit  for  a 
bride's  bouquet;  there  are  apples  so  flawless  that 
if  the  garden  of  Eden  grew  any  as  perfect  it  is 
small  wonder  that  Eve  fell  for  them.  There  are 
fresh  mushrooms,  and  jumbo  cocoanuts,  and 
green  almonds;  costly  things  in  beds  of  cotton 

[123] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

nestle  next  to  strange  and  marvelous  things  in 
tissue  wrappings.  Oh,  that  window  is  no  place 
for  the  hungry,  the  dissatisfied,  or  the  man  out 
of  a  job.  When  the  air  is  filled  with  snow  there 
is  that  in  the  sight  of  muskmelons  which  incites 
crime. 

Queerly  enough,  the  gazers  before  that  win 
dow  foot  up  the  same,  year  in,  and  year  out, 
something  after  this  fashion: 

Item:  One  anemic  little  milliner's  appren 
tice  in  coat  and  shoes  that  even  her  hat  can't 
redeem. 

Item:  One  sandy-haired,  gritty-complexioned 
man,  with  a  drooping  ragged  mustache,  a  tin 
dinner  bucket,  and  lime  on  his  boots. 

Item:  One  thin  mail  carrier  with  an  empty 
mail  sack,  gaunt  cheeks,  and  an  habitual  droop 
to  his  left  shoulder. 

Item :  One  errand  boy  troubled  with  a  chronic 
sniffle,  a  shrill  and  piping  whistle,  and  a  great 
deal  of  shuffling  foot-work. 

Item:  One  negro  wearing  a  spotted  tan  top 
coat,  frayed  trousers  and  no  collar.  His  eyes 
seem  all  whites  as  he  gazes. 

Enough  of  the  window.  But  bear  it  in  mind 
while  we  turn  to  Jennie.  Jennie's  real  name  was 


MAYMEYS  FROM  CUBA 

Janet,  and  she  was  Scotch.  Canny  ?  Not  neces 
sarily,  or  why  should  she  have  been  hungry  and 
out  of  a  job  in  January? 

Jennie  stood  in  the  row  before  the  window, 
and  stared.  The  longer  she  stared  the  sharper 
grew  the  lines  that  fright  and  under-feeding  had 
chiseled  about  her  nose,  and  mouth,  and  eyes. 
When  your  last  meal  is  an  eighteen-hour-old 
memory,  and  when  that  memory  has  only  near- 
coffee  and  a  roll  to  dwell  on,  there  is  something 
in  the  sight  of  January  peaches  and  great  straw 
berries  carelessly  spilling  out  of  a  tipped  box, 
just  like  they  do  in  the  fruit  picture  on  the  din 
ing-room  wall,  that  is  apt  to  carve  sharp  lines 
in  the  corners  of  the  face. 

The  tragic  line  dwindled,  going  about  its  busi 
ness.  The  man  with  the  dinner  pail  and  tfie 
lime  on  his  boots  spat,  drew  the  back  of  his  hand 
across  his  mouth,  and  turned  away  with  an  ugly 
look.  (Pork  was  up  to  $14.25,  dressed.) 

The  errand  boy's  blithe  whistle  died  down  to 
a  mournful  dirge.  He  was  window-wishing. 
His  choice  wavered  between  the  juicy  pears,  and 
the  foreign-looking  red  things  that  looked  like 
oranges,  and  weren't.  One  hand  went  into  his 
coat  pocket,  extracting  an  apple  that  was  to  have 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

formed  the  piece  de  resistance  of  his  noonday 
lunch.  Now  he  regarded  it  with  a  sort  of  pity 
ing  disgust,  and  bit  into  it  with  the  middle-of- 
the-morning  contempt  that  it  deserved. 

The  mail  carrier  pushed  back  his  cap  and  re 
flectively  scratched  his  head.  How  much  over 
his  month's  wage  would  that  green  basket  piled 
high  with  exotic  fruit  come  to? 

Jennie  stood  and  stared  after  they  had  left, 
and  another  line  had  formed.  If  you  could  have 
followed  her  gaze  with  dotted  lines,  as  they  do 
in  the  cartoons,  you  would  have  seen  that  it  was 
not  the  peaches,  or  the  prickly  pears,  or  the 
strawberries,  or  the  muskmelon  or  even  the 
grapes,  that  held  her  eye.  In  the  center  of  that 
wonderful  window  was  an  oddly  woven  basket. 
In  the  basket  were  brown  things  that  looked 
like  sweet  potatoes.  One  knew  that  they  were 
not.  A  sign  over  the  basket  informed  the 
puzzled  gazer  that  these  were  maymeys  from 
Cuba. 

Maymeys  from  Cuba.  The  humor  of  it 
might  have  struck  Jennie  if  she  had  not  been  so 
Scotch,  and  so  hungry.  As  it  was,  a  slow,  sullen, 
heavy  Scotch  wrath  rose  in  her  breast.  May 
meys  from  Cuba.  The  wantonness  of  it! 


MAYMEYS  FROM  CUBA 

Peaches?  Yes.  Grapes,  even,  and  pears  and 
cherries  in  snow  time.  But  maymeys  from  Cuba 
— why,  one  did  not  even  know  if  they  were  to  be 
eaten  with  butter,  or  with  vinegar,  or  in  the 
hand,  like  an  apple.  Who  wanted  maymeys 
from  Cuba  ?  They  had  gone  all  those  hundreds 
of  miles  to  get  a  fruit  or  vegetable  thing — a 
thing  so  luxurious,  so  out  of  all  reason  that  one 
did  not  know  whether  it  was  to  be  baked,  or 
eaten  raw.  There  they  lay,  in  their  foreign- 
looking  basket,  taunting  Jennie  who  needed  a 
quarter. 

Have  I  told  you  how  Jennie  happened  to  be 
hungry  and  jobless?  Well,  then  I  shaVt.  It 
doesn't  really  matter,  anyway.  The  fact  is 
enough.  If  you  really  demand  to  know  you 
might  inquire  of  Mr.  Felix  Klein.  You  will  find 
him  in  a  mahogany  office  on  the  sixth  floor.  The 
door  is  marked  manager.  It  was  his  idea  to  im 
port  Scotch  lassies  from  Dunfermline  for  his 
Scotch  linen  department.  The  idea  was  more 
fetching  than  feasible. 

There  are  people  who  will  tell  you  that  no 

girl  possessing  a  grain  of  common  sense  and  a 

little  nerve  need  go  hungry,  no  matter  how  great 

the  city.    Don't  you  believe  them.    The  city  has 

[127] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

heard  the  cry  of  wolf  so  often  that  it  refuses  to 
listen  when  he  is  snarling  at  the  door,  particu 
larly  when  the  door  is  next  door. 

Where  did  we  leave  Jennie?  Still  standing 
on  the  sidewalk  before  the  fruit  and  fancy  goods 
shop,  gazing  at  the  maymeys  from  Cuba.  Fi 
nally  her  Scotch  bump  of  curiosity  could  stand 
it  no  longer.  She  dug  her  elbow  into  the  arm  of 
the  person  standing  next  in  line. 

"What  are  those?'7  she  asked. 

The  next  in  line  happened  to  be  a  man.  He 
was  a  man  without  an  overcoat,  and  with  his 
chin  sunk  deep  into  his  collar,  and  his  hands 
thrust  deep  into  his  pockets.  It  looked  as 
though  he  were  trying  to  crawl  inside  himself 
for  warmth. 

"Those?  That  sign  says  they're  maymeys 
from  Cuba." 

"I  know,"  persisted  Jennie,  "but  what  are 
they?" 

"Search  me.  Say,  I  ain't  bothering  about 
maymeys  from  Cuba.  A  couple  of  hot  mur 
phies  from  Ireland,  served  with  a  lump  of  but 
ter,  would  look  good  enough  to  me." 

"Do  you  suppose  any  one  buys  them?"  mar 
veled  Jennie. 

[128] 


MAYMEYS  FROM  CUBA 

"Surest  thing  you  know.  Some  rich  dame 
coming  by  here,  wondering  what  she  can  have 
for  dinner  to  tempt  the  jaded  palates  of  her 
dear  ones,  see  ?  She  sees  them  Cuban  maymeys. 
The  very  thing !'  she  says.  Til  have  'em  served 
just  before  the  salad.'  And  she  sails  in  and  buys 
a  pound  or  two.  I  wonder,  now,  do  you  eat  'em 
with  a  fruit  knife,  or  with  a  spoon?" 

Jennie  took  one  last  look  at  the  woven  basket 
with  its  foreign  contents.  Then  she  moved  on, 
slowly.  She  had  been  moving  on  for  hours — 
weeks. 

Most  people  have  acquired  the  habit  of  eating 
three  meals  a  day.  In  a  city  of  some  few  mil 
lions  the  habit  has  made  necessary  the  establish 
ing  of  many  thousands  of  eating  places.  Jennie 
would  have  told  you  that  there  were  billions  of 
these.  To  her  the  world  seemed  composed  of 
one  huge,  glittering  restaurant,  with  myriads  of 
windows  through  which  one  caught  maddening 
glimpses  of  ketchup  bottles,  and  nickel  coffee 
heaters,  and  piles  of  doughnuts,  and  scurrying 
waiters  in  white,  and  people  critically  studying 
menu  cards.  She  walked  in  a  maze  of  restau 
rants,  cafes,  eating-houses.  Tables  and  diners 
loomed  up  at  every  turn,  on  every  street,  from 
[129] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

Michigan  Avenue's  rose-shaded  Louis  the  Some- 
thingth  palaces,  where  every  waiter  owns  his 
man,  to  the  white  tile  mausoleums  where  every 
man  is  his  own  waiter.  Everywhere  there  were 
windows  full  of  lemon  cream  pies,  and  pans  of 
baked  apples  swimming  in  lakes  of  golden  syrup, 
and  pots  of  baked  beans  with  the  pink  and  crispy 
slices  of  pork  just  breaking  through  the  crust. 
Every  dairy  lunch  mocked  one  with  the  sign  of 
" wheat  cakes  with  maple  syrup  and  country 
sausage,  20  cents." 

There  are  those  who  will  say  that  for  cases 
like  Jennie's  there  are  soup  kitchens,  Y.  W.  C. 
A.'s,  relief  associations,  policemen,  and  things 
like  that.  And  so  there  are.  Unfortunately, 
the  people  who  need  them  aren't  up  on  them. 
Try  it.  Plant  yourself,  penniless,  in  the  middle 
of  State  Street  on  a  busy  day,  dive  into  the  howl 
ing,  scrambling,  pushing  maelstrom  that  hurls 
itself  against  the  mountainous  and  impregnable 
form  of  the  crossing  policeman,  and  see  what 
you'll  get  out  of  it,  provided  you  have  the  cour 
age. 

Desperation  gave  Jennie  a  false  courage.  On 
the  strength  of  it  she  made  two  false  starts.  The 
third  time  she  reached  the  arm  of  the  crossing 


MAYMEYS  FROM  CUBA 

policeman,  and  clutched  it.  That  imposing  giant 
removed  the  whistle  from  his  mouth,  and  majes 
tically  inclined  his  head  without  turning  his  gaze 
upon  Jennie,  one  eye  being  fixed  on  a  red  auto 
mobile  that  was  showing  signs  of  sulking  at  its 
enforced  pause,  the  other  being  busy  with  a  curs 
ing  drayman  who  was  having  an  argument  with 
his  off  horse. 

Jennie  mumbled  her  question. 

Said  the  crossing  policeman: 

"Getcher  car  on  Wabash,  ride  to  'umpty- 
second,  transfer,  get  off  at  Blank  Street,  and 
walk  three  blocks  south." 

Then  he  put  the  whistle  back  in  his  mouth, 
blew  two  shrill  blasts,  and  the  horde  of  men, 
women,  motors,  drays,  trucks,  cars,  and  horses 
swept  over  him,  through  him,  past  him,  leaving 
him  miraculously  untouched. 

Jennie  landed  on  the  opposite  curbing,  breath 
ing  hard.  What  was  that  street?  Umpty- 
what?  Well,  it  didn't  matter,  anyway.  She 
hadn't  the  nickel  for  car  fare. 

What  did  you  do  next?  You  begged  from 
people  on  the  street.  Jennie  selected  a  middle- 
aged,  prosperous,  motherly  looking  woman.  She 
framed  her  plea  with  stiff  lips.  Before  she  had 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

finished  her  sentence  she  found  herself  address 
ing  empty  air.  The  middle-aged,  prosperous, 
motherly  looking  woman  had  hurried  on. 

Well,  then  you  tried  a  man.  You  had  to  be 
careful  there.  He  mustn't  be  the  wrong  kind. 
There  were  so  many  wrong  kinds.  Just  an  ordi 
nary  looking  family  man  would  be  best.  Ordi 
nary  looking  family  men  are  strangely  in  the 
minority.  There  are  so  many  more  bull-necked, 
tan-shoed  ones.  Finally  Jennie's  eye,  grown 
sharp  with  want,  saw  one.  Not  too  well  dressed, 
kind-faced,  middle-aged.  She  fell  into  step  be 
side  him. 

"Please,  can  you  help  me  out  with  a  shilling?" 

Jennie's  nose  was  red,  and  her  eyes  watery. 
Said  the  middle-aged  family  man  with  the  kindly 
face: 

"Beat  it.    You've  had  about  enough  I  guess." 

Jennie  walked  into  a  department  store,  picked 
out  the  oldest  and  most  stationary  looking  floor 
walker,  and  put  it  to  him.  The  floorwalker  bent 
his  head,  caught  the  word  "food,"  swung  about, 
and  pointed  over  Jennie's  head. 

"Grocery  department  on  the  seventh  floor. 
Take  one  of  those  elevators  up." 

Any  one  but  a  floorwalker  could  have  seen  the 


MAYMEYS  FROM  CUBA 

misery  in  Jennie's  face.  But  to  floorwalkers  all 
women's  faces  are  horrible. 

Jennie  turned  and  walked  blindly  toward  the 
elevators.  There  was  no  fight  left  in  her.  If 
the  floorwalker  had  said,  uSilk  negligees  on  the 
fourth  floor.  Take  one  of  those  elevators  up," 
Jennie  would  have  ridden  up  to  the  fourth  floor, 
and  stupidly  gazed  at  pink  silk  and  val  lace  negli 
gees  in  glass  cases. 

Tell  me,  have  you  ever  visited  the  grocery 
department  of  a  great  store  on  the  wrong  side  of 
State  Street?  It's  a  mouth-watering  experience. 
A  department  store  grocery  is  a  glorified  mix 
ture  of  delicatessen  shop,  meat  market,  and 
vaudeville.  Starting  with  the  live  lobsters  and 
crabs  you  work  your  hungry  way  right  around 
past  the  cheeses,  and  the  sausages,  and  the  hams, 
and  tongues,  and  head-cheese,  past  the  blonde 
person  in  white  who  makes  marvelous  and  un 
eatable  things  out  of  gelatine,  through  a  thou 
sand  smells  and  scents — smells  of  things  smoked, 
and  pickled,  and  spiced,  and  baked  and  pre 
served,  and  roasted. 

Jennie  stepped  out  of  the  elevator,  licking  her 
lips.  She  sniffed  the  air,  eagerly,  as  a  hound 
sniffs  the  scent.  She  shut  her  eyes  when  she 

[133] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

passed  the  sugar-cured  hams.  A  woman  was 
buying  a  slice  from  one,  and  the  butcher  was 
extolling  its  merits.  Jennie  caught  the  words 
"juicy"  and  "corn-fed." 

That  particular  store  prides  itself  on  its  cheese 
department.  It  boasts  that  there  one  can  get 
anything  in  cheese  from  the  simple  cottage  va 
riety  to  imposing  mottled  Stilton.  There  are 
cheeses  from  France,  cheeses  from  Switzerland, 
cheeses  from  Holland.  Brick  and  parmesan, 
Edam  and  limburger  perfumed  the  atmosphere. 

Behind  the  counters  were  big,  full-fed  men  in 
white  aprons,  and  coats.  They  flourished  keen 
bright  knives.  As  Jennie  gazed,  one  of  them, 
in  a  moment  of  idleness,  cut  a  tiny  wedge  from 
a  rich  yellow  Swiss  cheese  and  stood  nibbling  it 
absently,  his  eyes  wandering  toward  the  blonde 
gelatine  demonstrator.  Jennie  swayed,  and 
caught  the  counter.  She  felt  horribly  faint  and 
queer.  She  shut  her  eyes  for  a  moment.  When 
she  opened  them  a  woman — a  fat,  housewifely, 
comfortable  looking  woman — was  standing  be 
fore  the  cheese  counter.  She  spoke  to  the  cheese 
man.  Once  more  his  sharp  knife  descended  and 
he  was  offering  the  possible  customer  a  sample. 
She  picked  it  off  the  knife's  sharp  tip,  nibbled 

[134] 


MAYMEYS  FROM  CUBA 

thoughtfully,  shook  her  head,  and  passed  on. 
A  great,  glorious  world  of  hope  opened  out  be 
fore  Jennie. 

Her  cheeks  grew  hot,  and  her  eyes  felt  dry 
and  bright  as  she  approached  the  cheese  counter. 

UA   bit   of   that,"    she   said,    pointing.     "It 
doesn't  look  just  as  I  like  it." 

"Very  fine,  madam,"  the  man  assured  her, 
and  turned  the  knife  point  toward  her,  with  the 
infinitesimal  wedge  of  cheese  reposing  on  its 
blade.  Jennie  tried  to  keep  her  hand  steady  as 
she  delicately  picked  it  off,  nibbled  as  she  had 
seen  that  other  woman  do  it,  her  head  on  one 
side,  before  it  shook  a  slow  negative.  The  ef 
fort  necessary  to  keep  from  cramming  the  entire 
piece  into  her  mouth  at  once  left  her  weak  and 
trembling.  She  passed  on  as  the  other  woman 
had  done,  around  the  corner,  and  into  a  world 
of  sausages.  Great  rosy  mounds  of  them  filled 
counters  and  cases.  Sausage!  Sneer,  you  pate 
de  foies  grasers!  But  may  you  know  the  day 
when  hunger  will  have  you.  And  on  that  day 
may  you  run  into  linked  temptation  in  the  form 
of  Braunschweiger  Metwurst.  May  you  know 
the  longing  that  causes  the  eyes  to  glaze  at  the 
sight  of  Thuringer  sausage,  and  the  mouth  to 

[135] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

water  at  the  scent  of  Cervelat  wurst,  and  the 
fingers  to  tremble  at  the  nearness  of  smoked 
liver. 

Jennie  stumbled  on,  through  the  smells  and 
the  sights.  That  nibble  of  cheese  had  been  like 
a  drop  of  human  blood  to  a  man-eating  tiger. 
It  made  her  bold,  cunning,  even  while  it  mad 
dened.  She  stopped  at  this  counter  and  de 
manded  a  slice  of  summer  sausage.  It  was 
paper-thin,  but  delicious  beyond  belief.  At  the 
next  counter  there  was  corned  beef,  streaked  fat 
and  lean.  Jennie  longed  to  bury  her  teeth  in  the 
succulent  meat  and  get  one  great,  soul-satisfying 
mouthful.  She  had  to  be  content  with  her  ju 
dicious  nibbling.  To  pass  the  golden-brown, 
breaded  pig's  feet  was  torture.  To  look  at  the 
codfish  balls  was  agony.  And  so  Jennie  went 
on,  sampling,  tasting,  the  scraps  of  food  acting 
only  as  an  aggravation.  Up  one  aisle,  and  down 
the  next  she  went.  And  then,  just  around  the 
corner,  she  brought  up  before  the  grocery  de 
partment's  pride  and  boast,  the  Scotch  bakery. 
It  is  the  store's  star  vaudeville  feature.  All  day 
long  the  gaping  crowd  stands  before  it,  watch 
ing  David  the  Scone  Man,  as  with  sleeves  rolled 
high  above  his  big  arms,  he  kneads,  and  slaps, 


MAYMEYS  FROM  CUBA 

and  molds,  and  thumps  and  shapes  the  dough 
into  toothsome  Scotch  confections.  There  was 
a  crowd  around  the  white  counters  now,  and  the 
flat  baking  surface  of  the  gas  stove  was  just  hot 
enough,  and  David  the  Scone  Man  (he  called 
them  Scuns)  was  whipping  about  here  and  there, 
turning  the  baking  oat  cakes,  filling  the  shelf 
above  the  stove  when  they  were  done  to  a  turn, 
rolling  out  fresh  ones,  waiting  on  customers. 
His  nut-cracker  face  almost  allowed  itself  a 
pleased  expression — but  not  quite.  David,  the 
Scone  Man,  was  Scotch  (I  was  going  to  add, 
d'ye  ken,  but  I  will  not). 

Jennie  wondered  if  she  really  saw  those 
things.  Mutton  pies !  Scones  1  Scotch  short 
bread!  Oat  cakes!  She  edged  closer,  wrig 
gling  her  way  through  the  little  crowd  until  she 
stood  at  the  counter's  edge.  David,  the  Scone 
Man,  his  back  to  the  crowd,  was  turning  the  last 
batch  of  oat  cakes.  Jennie  felt  strangely  light 
headed,  and  unsteady,  and  airy.  She  stared 
straight  ahead,  a  half-smile  on  her  lips,  while 
a  hand  that  she  knew  was  her  own,  and  that  yet 
seemed  no  part  of  her,  stole  out,  very,  very 
slowly,  and  cunningly,  and  extracted  a  hot  scone 
from  the  pile  that  lay  in  the  tray  on  the  counter. 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

That  hand  began  to  steal  back,  more  quickly 
now.  But  not  quickly  enough.  Another  hand 
grasped  her  wrist.  A  woman's  high,  shrill  voice 
(why  will  women  do  these  things  to  each 
other?)  said,  excitedly: 

"Say,  Scone  Man !  Scone  Man !  This  girl  is 
stealing  something!" 

A  buzz  of  exclamations  from  the  crowd — a 
closing  in  upon  her — a  whirl  of  faces,  and  coun 
ter,  and  trays,  and  gas  stove.  Jennie  dropped 
with  a  crash,  the  warm  scone  still  grasped  in  her 
fingers. 

Just  before  the  ambulance  came  it  was  the 
blonde  lady  of  the  impossible  gelatines  who 
caught  the  murmur  that  came  from  Jennie's 
white  lips.  The  blonde  lady  bent  her  head  closer. 
Closer  still.  When  she  raised  her  face  to  those 
other  faces  crowded  near,  her  eyes  were  round 
with  surprise. 

"  'S  far's  I  can  make  out,  she  says  her  name's 
Mamie,  and  she's  from  Cuba.  Well,  wouldn't 
that  eat  you!  I  always  thought  they  was  dark 
complected." 


VIII 
THE  LEADING  LADY 

HpHE  leading  lady  lay  on  her  bed  and  wept. 
Not  as  you  have  seen  leading  ladies  weep, 
becomingly,  with  eyebrows  pathetically  V- 
shaped,  mouth  quivering,  sequined  bosom  heav 
ing.  The  leading  lady  lay  on  her  bed  in  a  red- 
and-blue-striped  kimono  and  wept  as  a  woman 
weeps,  her  head  burrowing  into  the  depths 
of  the  lumpy  hotel  pillow,  her  teeth  biting 
the  pillow-case  to  choke  back  the  sounds  so 
that  the  grouch  in  the  next  room  might  not 
hear. 

Presently  the  leading  lady's  right  hand  began 
to  grope  about  on  the  bedspread  for  her  hand 
kerchief.  Failing  to  find  it,  she  sat  up  wearily, 
raising  herself  on  one  elbow  and  pushing  her 
hair  back  from  her  forehead — not  as  you  have 
seen  a  leading  lady  pass  a  lily  hand  across  her 
alabaster  brow,  but  as  a  heart-sick  woman  does 
it.  Her  tears  and  sniffles  had  formed  a  little 
oasis  of  moisture  on  the  pillow's  white  bosom 
so  that  the  ugly  stripe  of  the  ticking  showed 

[139] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

through.  She  gazed  down  at  the  damp  circle 
with  smarting,  swollen  eyes,  and  another  lump 
came  up  into  her  throat. 

Then  she  sat  up  resolutely,  and  looked  about 
her.  The  leading  lady  had  a  large  and  saving 
sense  of  humor.  But  there  is  nothing  that  blunts 
the  sense  of  humor  more  quickly  than  a  few 
months  of  one-night  stands.  Even  O.  Henry 
could  have  seen  nothing  funny  about  that 
room. 

The  bed  was  of  green  enamel,  with  fly-specked 
gold  trimmings.  It  looked  like  a  huge  frog. 
The  wall-paper  was  a  crime.  It  represented  an 
army  of  tan  mustard  plasters  climbing  up  a 
chocolate-fudge  wall.  The  leading  lady  was 
conscious  of  a  feeling  of  nausea  as  she  gazed 
at  it.  So  she  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window. 
The  room  faced  west,  and  the  hot  afternoon 
sun  smote  full  on  her  poor  swollen  eyes.  Across 
the  street  the  red  brick  walls  of  the  engine-house 
caught  the  glare  and  sent  it  back.  The  firemen, 
in  their  blue  shirt-sleeves,  were  seated  in  the 
shade  before  the  door,  their  chairs  tipped  at  an 
angle  of  sixty.  The  leading  lady  stared  down 
into  the  sun-baked  street,  turned  abruptly  and 
made  as  though  to  fall  upon  the  bed  again^  with 
[140] 


THE  LEADING  LADY 

a  view  to  forming  another  little  damp  oasis 
on  the  pillow.  But  when  she  reached  the 
center  of  the  stifling  little  bedroom  her  eye 
chanced  on  the  electric  call-button  near  the  door. 
Above  the  electric  bell  was  tacked  a  printed 
placard  giving  information  on  the  subjects  of 
laundry,  ice-water,  bell-boys  and  dining-room 
hours. 

The  leading  lady  stood  staring  at  it  a  moment 
thoughtfully.  Then  with  a  sudden  swift  move 
ment  she  applied  her  forefinger  to  the  button 
and  held  it  there  for  a  long  half-minute.  Then 
she  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  her  kimono 
folded  about  her,  and  waited. 

She  waited  until  a  lank  bell-boy,  in  a  brown 
uniform  that  was  some  sizes  too  small  for  him, 
had  ceased  to  take  any  interest  in  the  game  of 
chess  which  Bauer  and  Merkle,  the  champion 
firemen  chess-players,  were  contesting  on  the 
walk  before  the  open  doorway  of  the  engine- 
house.  The  proprietor  of  the  Burke  House  had 
originally  intended  that  the  brown  uniform  be 
worn  by  a  diminutive  bell-boy,  such  as  one  sees 
in  musical  comedies.  But  the  available  supply 
of  stage  size  bell-boys  in  our  town  is  somewhat 
limited  and  was  soon  exhausted.  There  fol- 

[141] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

lowed  a  succession  of  lank  bell-boys,  with'  arms 
and  legs  sticking  ungracefully  out  of  sleeves  and 
trousers. 

"Come!"  called  the  leading  lady  quickly,  in 
answer  to  the  lank  youth's  footsteps,  and  before 
he  had  had  time  to  knock. 

"Ring?"  asked  the  boy,  stepping  into  the  tor 
rid  little  room. 

The  leading  lady  did  not  reply  immediately. 
She  swallowed  something  in  her  throat  and 
pushed  back  the  hair  from  her  moist  forehead 
again.  The  brown  uniform  repeated  his  ques 
tion,  a  trifle  irritably.  Whereupon  the  leading 
lady  spoke,  desperately: 

"Is  there  a  woman  around  this  place?  I 
don't  mean  dining-room  girls,  or  the  person  be 
hind  the  cigar-counter." 

Since  falling  heir  to  the  brown  uniform  the 
lank  youth  had  heard  some  strange  requests.  He 
had  been  interviewed  by  various  ladies  in  vari 
colored  kimonos  relative  to  liquid  refreshment, 
laundry  and  the  cost  of  hiring  a  horse  and  rig 
for  a  couple  of  hours.  One  had  even  summoned 
him  to  ask  if  there  was  a  Bible  in  the  house. 
But  this  latest  question  was  a  new  one.  He 
stared,  leaning  against  the  door  and  thrusting 


THE  LEADING  LADY 

one  hand  into  the  depths  of  his  very  tight 
breeches  pocket. 

"Why,  there's  Pearlie  Schultz,"  he  said  at 
last,  with  a  grin. 

"Who's  she?"  The  leading  lady  sat  up  ex 
pectantly. 

"Steno." 

The  expectant  figure  drooped.  "Blonde? 
And  Irish  crochet  collar  with  a  black  velvet  bow 
on  her  chest?" 

"Who?  Pearlie?  Naw.  You  mustn't  get 
Pearlie  mixed  with  the  common  or  garden  va 
riety  of  stenos.  Pearlie  is  fat,  and  she  wears 
specs  and  she's  got  a  double  chin.  Her  hair  is 
skimpy  and  she  don't  wear  no  rat.  W'y  no 
traveling  man  has  ever  tried  to  flirt  with  Pearlie 
yet.  Pearlie's  what  you'd  call  a  woman,  all 
right.  You  wouldn't  never  make  a  mistake  and 
think  she'd  escaped  from  the  first  row  in  the 
chorus." 

The  leading  lady  rose  from  the  bed,  reached 
out  for  her  pocket-book,  extracted  a  dime,  and 
held  it  out  to  the  bell-boy. 

"Here.  Will  you  ask  her  to  come  up  here  to 
me?  Tell  her  I  said  please" 

After  he  had  gone  she  seated  herself  on  the 

[143] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

edge  of  the  bed  again,  with  a  look  in  her  eyes 
like  that  which  you  have  seen  in  the  eyes  of  a 
dog  that  is  waiting  for  a  door  to  be  opened. 

Fifteen  minutes  passed.  The  look  in  the  eyes 
of  the  leading  lady  began  to  fade.  Then  a  foot 
step  sounded  down  the  hall.  The  leading  lady 
cocked  her  head  to  catch  it,  and  smiled  blissfully. 
It  was  a  heavy,  comfortable  footstep,  under 
which  a  board  or  two  creaked.  There  came  a 
big,  sensible  thump-thump-thump  at  the  door, 
with  stout  knuckles.  The  leading  lady  flew  to 
answer  it.  She  flung  the  door  wide  and  stood 
there,  clutching  her  kimono  at  the  throat  and 
looking  up  into  a  red,  good-natured  face. 

Pearlie  Schultz  looked  down  at  the  leading 
lady  kindly  and  benignantly,  as  a  mastiff  might 
look  at  a  terrier. 

"Lonesome  for  a  bosom  to  cry  on?"  asked 
she,  and  stepped  into  the  room,  walked  to  the 
west  windows,  and  jerked  down  the  shades  with 
a  zip-zip,  shutting  off  the  yellow  glare.  She 
came  back  to  where  the  leading  lady  was  stand 
ing  and  patted  her  on  the  cheek,  lightly. 

"You  tell  me  all  about  it,"  said  she, 
smiling. 

The  leading  lady  opened  her  lips,  gulped, 


THE  LEADING  LADY 

tried  again,  gulped  again — Pearlie  Schultz 
shook  a  sympathetic  head. 

"Ain't  had  a  decent,  close-to-nature  powwow 
with  a  woman  for  weeks  and  weeks,  have  you?" 

"How  did  you  know?"  cried  the  leading  lady. 

"You've  got  that  hungry  look.  There  was  a 
lady  drummer  here  last  winter,  and  she  had  the 
same  expression.  She  was  so  dead  sick  of  eat 
ing  her  supper  and  then  going  up  to  her  ugly 
room  and  reading  and  sewing  all  evening  that 
it  was  a  wonder  she'd  stayed  good.  She  said  it 
was  easy  enough  for  the  men.  They  could 
smoke,  and  play  pool,  and  go  to  a  show,  and  talk 
to  any  one  that  looked  good  to  'em.  But  if  she 
tried  to  amuse  herself  everybody'd  say  she  was 
tough.  She  cottoned  to  me  like  a  burr  to  a  wool 
skirt.  She  traveled  for  a  perfumery  house,  and 
she  said  she  hadn't  talked  to  a  woman,  except 
the  dry-goods  clerks  who  were  nice  to  her  trying 
to  work  her  for  her  perfume  samples,  for  weeks 
an'  weeks.  Why,  that  woman  made  crochet  by 
the  bolt,  and  mended  her  clothes  evenings 
whether  they  needed  it  or  not,  and  read  till  her 
eyes  come  near  going  back  on  her." 

The  leading  lady  seized  Pearlie's  hand  and 
squeezed  it. 

£145] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

"That's  it!  Why,  I  haven't  talked— really 
talked — to  a  real  woman  since  the  company 
went  out  on  the  road.  I'm  leading  lady  of  the 
'Second  Wife'  company,  you  know.  It's  one  of 
those  small  cast  plays,  with  only  five  people  in 
it.  I  play  the  wife,  and  I'm  the  only  woman 
in  the  cast.  It's  terrible.  I  ought  to  be  thank 
ful  to  get  the  part  these  days.  And  I  was,  too. 
But  I  didn't  know  it  would  be  like  this.  I'm  go 
ing  crazy.  The  men  in  the  company  are  good 
kids,  but  I  can't  go  trailing  around  after  them 
all  day.  Besides,  it  wouldn't  be  right.  They're 
all  married,  except  Billy,  who  plays  the  kid,  and 
he's  busy  writing  a  vawdeville  skit  that  he  thinks 
the  New  York  managers  are  going  to  fight  for 
when  he  gets  back  home.  We  were  to  play 
Athens,  -  Wisconsin,  to-night,  but  the  house 
burned  down  night  before  last,  and  that  left  us 
with  an  open  date.  When  I  heard  the  news 
you'd  have  thought  I  had  lost  my  mother.  It's 
bad  enough  having  a  whole  day  to  kill>  but  when 
I  think  of  to-night,"  the  leading  lady's  voice 
took  on  a  note  of  hysteria,  "it  seems  as  though 
I'd " 

"Say,"  Pearlie  interrupted,  abruptly,  "you 
ain't  got  a  real  good  corset-cover  pattern,  have 


THE  LEADING  LADY 

you?  One  that  fits  smooth  over  the  bust  and 
don't  slip  off  the  shoulders?  I  don't  seem  able 
to  get  my  hands  on  the  kind  I  want." 

"Have  I!"  yelled  the  leading  lady.  And 
made  a  flying  leap  from  the  bed  to  the  floor. 

She  flapped  back  the  cover  of  a  big  suit-case 
and  began  burrowing  into  its  depths,  strewing 
the  floor  with  lingerie,  newspaper  clippings, 
blouses,  photographs  and  Dutch  collars.  Pearlie 
came  over  and  sat  down  on  the  floor  in  the  midst 
of  the  litter.  The  leading  lady  dived  once  more, 
fished  about  in  the  bottom  of  the  suit-case  and 
brought  a  crumpled  piece  of  paper  triumph 
antly  to  the  surface. 

"This  is  it.  It  only  takes  a  yard  and  five- 
eighths.  And  fits!  Like  Anna  Held's  skirts. 
Comes  down  in  a  V  front  and  back — like  this. 
See?  And  no  fulness.  Wait  a  minute.  I'll 
show  you  my  princess  slip.  I  made  it  all  by 
hand,  too.  I'll  bet  you  couldn't  buy  it  under 
fifteen  dollars,  and  it  cost  me  four  dollars  and 
eighty  cents,  with  the  lace  and  all." 

Before  an  hour  had  passed,  the  lead 
ing  lady  had  displayed  all  her  treasures,  from 
the  photograph  of  her  baby  that  died  to  her  new 
Blanche  Ring  curl  cluster,  and  was  calling 

[147] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

Pearlie  by  her  first  name.  When  a  bell  some 
where  boomed  six  o'clock  Pearlie  was  being  in 
structed  in  a  new  exercise  calculated  to  reduce 
the  hips  an  inch  a  month. 

"My  land!"  cried  Pearlie,  aghast,  and  scram 
bled  to  her  feet  as  nimbly  as  any  woman  can 
who  weighs  two  hundred  pounds.  "Supper- 
time,  and  I've  got  a  bunch  of  letters  an  inch 
thick  to  get  out!  I'd  better  reduce  that  some 
before  I  begin  on  my  hips.  But  say,  I've  had  a 
lovely  time." 

The  leading  lady  clung  to  her.  "You've 
saved  my  life.  Why,  I  forgot  all  about  being 
hot  and  lonely  and  a  couple  of  thousand  miles 
from  New  York.  Must  you  go  ?" 

"Got  to.  But  if  you'll  promise  you  won't 
laugh,  I'll  make  a  date  for  this  evening  that'll 
give  you  a  new  sensation  anyway.  There's  go 
ing  to  be  a  strawberry  social  on  the  lawn  of  the 
parsonage  of  our  church.  I've  got  a  booth. 
You  shed  that  kimono,  and  put  on  a  thin 
dress  and  those  curls  and  some  powder,  and  I'll 
introduce  you  as  my  friend,  Miss  Evans.  You 
don't  look  Evans,  but  this  is  a  Methodist 
church  strawberry  festival,  and  if  I  was  to 
tell  them  that  you  are  leading  lady  of  the 


THE  LEADING  LADY 

'Second  Wife'  company  they'd  excommunicate 
my  booth." 

"A  strawberry  social!"  gasped  the  leading 
lady.  "Do  they  still  have  them?"  She  did  not 
laugh.  "Why,  I  used  to  go  to  strawberry  festi 
vals  when  I  was  a  little  girl  in  -  " 

"Careful!  You'll  be  giving  away  your  age, 
and,  anyway,  you  don't  look  it.  Fashions  in 
strawberry  socials  ain't  changed  much.  Better 
bathe  your  eyes  in  eau  de  cologne  or  whatever 
it  is  they're  always  dabbing  on  'em  in  books. 
See  you  at  eight." 

At  eight  o'clock  Pearlie's  thump-thump 
sounded  again,  and  the  leading  lady  sprang  to 
the  door  as  before.  Pearlie  stared.  This  was 
no  tear-stained,  heat-bedraggled  creature  in  an 
unbecoming  red-striped  kimono.  It  was  a  re 
markably  pretty  woman  in  a  white  lingerie 
gown  over  a  pink  slip.  The  leading  lady 
knew  a  thing  or  two  about  the  gentle  art  of 
making-up  I 

"That  just  goes  to  show,"  remarked  Pearlie, 
must  never  judge  a  woman  in  a  ki 


jjipno  or  a  bathing  suit.  You  look  nineteen. 
Say,  I  forgot  something  down-stairs.  Just  get 
your  handkerchief  and  chamois  together  and 

•[149] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

meet  in  my  cubby-hole  next  to  the  lobby,  will 
you?  I'll  be  ready  for  you." 

Down-stairs  she  summoned  the  lank  bell-boy. 
"You  go  outside  and  tell  Sid  Strang  I  want  to 
see  him,  will  you  ?  He's  on  the  bench  with  the 
baseball  bunch." 

Pearlie  had  not  seen  Sid  Strang  outside.  She 
did  not  need  to.  She  knew  he  was  there.  In 
our  town  all  the  young  men  dress  up  in  their 
pale  gray  suits  and  lavender-striped  shirts  after 
supper  on  summer  evenings.  Then  they  stroll 
down  to  the  Burke  House,  buy  a  cigar  and  sit 
down  on  the  benches  in  front  of  the  hotel  to  talk 
baseball  and  watch  the  girls  go  by.  It  is  aston 
ishing  to  note  the  number  of  our  girls  who  have 
letters  to  mail  after  supper.  One  would  think 
that  they  must  drive  their  pens  fiercely  all  the 
afternoon  in  order  to  get  out  such  a  mass  of  cor 
respondence. 

The  obedient  Sid  reached  the  door  of 
Pearlie's  little  office  just  off  the  lobby  as  the  lead 
ing  lady  came  down  the  stairs  with  a  spangled 
scarf  trailing  over  her  arm.  It  was  an  effective 
entrance. 

"Why,  hello !"  said  Pearlie,  looking  up  from 
her  typewriter  as  though  Sid  Strang  were  the 


THE  LEADING  LADY 

last  person  in  the  world  she  expected  to  see. 
"What  do  you  want  here?  Ethel,  this  is  my 
friend,  Mr.  Sid  Strang,  one  of  our  rising  young 
lawyers.  His  neckties  always  match  his  socks. 
Sid,  this  is  my  friend,  Miss  Ethel  Evans,  of 
New  York.  We're  going  over  to  the  strawberry 
social  at  the  M.  E.  parsonage.  I  don't  suppose 
you'd  care  about  going?" 

Mr.  Sid  Strang  gazed  at  the  leading  lady  in 
I  the  white  lingerie  dress  with  the  pink  slip,  and 
the  V-shaped  neck,  and  the  spangled  scarf,  and 
turned  to  Pearlie. 

"Why,  Pearlie  Schultz!"  he  said  reproach 
fully.  "How  can  you  ask?  You  know  what  a 
strawberry  social  means  to  me!  I  haven't 
missed  one  in  years!" 

"I  know  it,"  replied  Pearlie,  with  a  grin. 
"You  feel  the  same  way  about  Thursday  even 
ing  prayer-meeting  too,  don't  you?  You  can 
walk  over  with  us  if  you  want  to.  We're  going 
now.  Miss  Evans  and  I  have  got  a  booth." 

Sid  walked.  Pearlie  led  them  determinedly 
past  the  rows  of  gray  suits  and  lavender  and  pink 
shirts  on  the  benches  in  front  of  the  hotel.  And 
as  the  leading  lady  came  into  view  the  gray  suits 
stopped  talking  baseball  and  sat  up  and  took 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

notice.  Pearlie  had  known  all  those  young  men 
inside  of  the  swagger  suits  in  the  days  when  their 
summer  costume  consisted  of  a  pair  of  dad's 
pants  cut  down  to  a  doubtful  fit,  and  a  nonde 
script  shirt  damp  from  the  swimming-hole.  So 
she  called  out,  cheerily: 

"We're  going  over  to  the  strawberry  festival. 
I  expect  to  see  all  you  boys  there  to  contribute 
your  mite  to  the  church  carpet." 

The  leading  lady  turned  to  look  at  them,  and 
smiled.  They  were  such  a  dapper,  pink-cheeked, 
clean-looking  lot  of  boys,  she  thought.  At  that 
the  benches  rose  to  a  man  and  announced  that 
they  might  as  well  stroll  over  right  now. 
Whenever  a  new  girl  comes  to  visit  in  our  town 
our  boys  make  a  concerted  rush  at  her,  and  de 
velop  a  "case"  immediately,  and  the  girl  goes 
home  when  her  visit  is  over  with  her  head  swim 
ming,  and  forever  after  bores  the  girls  of  her 
home  town  with  tales  of  her  conquests. 

The  ladies  of  the  First  M.  E.  Church  still 
talk  of  the  money  they  garnered  at  the  straw 
berry  festival.  Pearlie's  out-of-town  friend  was 
garnerer-in-chief.  You  take  a  cross-eyed,  pock 
marked  girl  and  put  her  in  a  white  dress,  with  a 
pink  slip,  on  a  green  lawn  under  a  string  of  rose- 


THE  LEADING  LADY 

colored  Japanese  lanterns,  and  she'll  develop 
an  almost  Oriental  beauty.  It  is  an  ideal  set 
ting.  The  leading  lady  was  not  cross-eyed  or 
pock-marked.  She  stood  at  the  lantern-illumined 
booth,  with  Pearlie  in  the  background,  and  dis 
pensed  an  unbelievable  amount  of  strawberries. 
Sid  Strang  and  the  hotel  bench  brigade  assisted. 
They  made  engagements  to  take  Pearlie  and  her 
friend  down  river  next  day,  and  to  the  ball 
game,  and  planned  innumerable  picnics,  gazing 
meanwhile  into  the  leading  lady's  eyes.  There 
grew  in  the  cheeks  of  the  leading  lady  a  flush 
that  was  not  brought  about  by  the  pink  slip,  or 
the  Japanese  lanterns,  or  the  skillful  application 
of  rouge. 

By  nine  o'clock  the  strawberry  supply  was  ex 
hausted,  and  the  president  of  the  Foreign  Mis 
sionary  Society  was  sending  wildly  down-town 
for  more  ice-cream. 

"I  call  it  an  outrage,"  puffed  Pearlie  happily, 
ladling  ice-cream  like  mad.  "Making  a  poor 
working  girl  like  me  slave  all  evening!  How 
many  was  that  last  order?  Four?  My  land! 
that's  the  third  dish  of  ice-cream  Ed  White's 
had !  You'll  have  something  to  tell  the  villagers 
about  when  you  get  back  to  New  York." 

[153] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

The  leading  lady  turned  a  flushed  face  toward 
Pearlie.  "This  is  more  fun  than  the  Actors' 
Fair.  I  had  the  photograph  booth  last  year, 
and  I  took  in  nearly  as  much  as  Lil  Russell ;  and 
goodness  knows,  all  she  needs  to  do  at  a  fair  is 
to  wear  her  diamond-and-pearl  stomacher  and 
her  set-piece  smile,  and  the  men  just  swarm 
around  her  like  the  pictures  of  a  crowd  in  a  Mc- 
Cutcheon  cartoon." 

When  the  last  Japanese  lantern  had  guttered 
out,  Pearlie  Schultz  and  the  leading  lady  pre 
pared  to  go  home.  Before  they  left,  the  M.  E. 
ladies  came  over  to  Pearlie's  booth  and  person 
ally  congratulated  the  leading  lady,  and  thanked 
her  for  the  interest  she  had  taken  in  the  cause, 
and  the  secretary  of  the  Epworth  League  asked 
her  to  come  to  the  tea  that  was  to  be  held  at  her 
home  the  following  Tuesday.  The  leading  lady 
thanked  her  and  said  she'd  come  if  she  could. 

Escorted  by  a  bodyguard  of  gray  suits  and 
lavender-striped  shirts  Pearlie  and  her  friend, 
Miss  Evans,  walked  toward  the  hotel.  The  at 
tentive  bodyguard  confessed  itself  puzzled. 

"Aren't  you  staying  at  Pearlie's  house?" 
asked  Sid  tenderly,  when  they  reached  the  Burke 
House.  The  leading  lady  glanced  up  at  the 

[154] 


THE  LEADING  LADY 

windows  of  the  stifling  little  room  that  faced 
west. 

"No,"  answered  she,  and  paused  at  the  foot 
of  the  steps  to  the  ladies*  entrance.  The  light 
from  the  electric  globe  over  the  doorway  shone 
on  her  hair  and  sparkled  in  the  folds  of  her 
spangled  scarf. 

"I'm  not  staying  at  Pearlie's  because  my  name 
isn't  Ethel  Evans.  It's  Aimee  Fox,  with  a  little 
French  accent  mark  over  the  double  E.  I'm 
leading  lady  of  the  'Second  Wife'  company  and 
old  enough  to  be — well,  your  aunty,  anyway. 
We  go  out  at  one-thirty  to-morrow  morning." 


[155] 


IX 
THAT  HOME-TOWN  FEELING 

all  have  our  ambitions.  Mine  is  to  sit 
in  a  rocking-chair  on  the  sidewalk  at  the 
corner  of  Clark  and  Randolph  Streets,  and 
watch  the  crowds  go  by.  South  Clark  Street  is 
one  of  the  most  interesting  and  cosmopolitan 
thoroughfares  in  the  world  (New  Yorkers 
please  sniff).  If  you  are  from  Paris,  France, 
or  Paris,  Illinois,  and  should  chance  to  be  in  that 
neighborhood,  you  will  stop  at  Tony's  news 
stand  to  buy  your  home-town  paper.  Don't  mis 
take  the  nature  of  this  story.  There  is  nothing 
of  the  shivering-newsboy-waif  about  Tony.  He 
has  the  voice  of  a  fog-horn,  the  purple-striped 
shirt  of  a  sport,  the  diamond  scarf-pin  of  a  race 
track  tout,  and  the  s avoir  faire  of  the  gutter- 
bred.  You'd  never  pick  him  for  a  newsboy  if  it 
weren't  for  his  chapped  hands  and  the  eternal 
cold-sore  on  the  upper  left  corner  of  his 
mouth. 

It  is  a  fascinating  thing,  Tony's  stand.     A 
high  'wooden  structure  rising  tier  on  tier,  con- 


THAT  HOME-TOWN  FEELING 

taining  papers  from  every  corner  of  the  world. 
I'll  defy  you  to  name  a  paper  that  Tony  doesn't 
handle,  from  Timbuctoo  to  Tarrytown,  from 
South  Bend  to  South  Africa.  A  paper  marked 
Christiania,  Norway,  nestles  next  to  a  sheet  from 
Kalamazoo,  Michigan.  You  can  get  the  War 
Cry,  or  Le  Figaro.  With  one  hand,  Tony  will 
give  you  the  Berlin  Tageblatt,  and  with  the 
other  the  Times  from  Neenah,  Wisconsin. 
Take  your  choice  between  the  Bulletin  from  Syd 
ney,  Australia,  or  the  Bee  from  Omaha. 

But  perhaps  you  know  South  Clark  Street. 
It  is  honeycombed  with  good  copy — man-size 
stuff.  South  Clark  Street  reminds  one  of  a  slat 
ternly  woman,  brave  in  silks  and  velvets  on  the 
surface,  but  ragged,  and  rumpled  and  none  too 
clean  as  to  nether  garments.  It  begins  with  a 
tenement  so  vile,  so  filthy,  so  repulsive,  that  the 
municipal  authorities  deny  its  very  existence.  It 
ends  with  a  brand-new  hotel,  all  red  brick,  and 
white  tiling,  and  Louise  Quinze  furniture,  and 
sour-cream  colored  marble  lobby,  and  oriental 
rugs  lavishly  scattered  under  the  feet  of  the  un- 
appreciative  guest  from  Kansas  City.  It  is  a 
street  of  signs,  is  South  Clark.  They  vary  all 
the  way  from  uBanca  Italiana"  done  in  fat,  fly- 

[157] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

specked  letters  of  gold,  to  "Sang  Yuen"  scrawled 
in  Chinese  red  and  black.  Spaghetti  and  chop 
suey  and  dairy  lunches  nestle  side  by  side.  Here 
an  electric  sign  blazons  forth  the  tempting  an 
nouncement  of  lunch.  Just  across  the  way,  deli 
cately  suggesting  a  means  of  availing  one's  self 
of  the  invitation,  is  another  which  announces 
"Loans."  South  Clark  Street  can  transform  a 
winter  overcoat  into  hamburger  and  onions  so 
quickly  that  the  eye  can't  follow  the  hand. 

Do  you  gather  from  this  that  you  are  being 
taken  slumming  ?  Not  at  all.  For  the  passer-by 
on  Clark  Street  varies  as  to  color,  nationality, 
raiment,  finger-nails,  and  hair-cut  according  to 
the  locality  in  which  you  find  him. 

At  the  tenement  end  the  feminine  passer-by  is 
apt  to  be  shawled,  swarthy,  down-at-the-heel, 
and  dragging  a  dark-eyed,  fretting  baby  in  her 
wake.  At  the  hotel  end  you  will  find  her  blonde 
of  hair,  velvet  of  boot,  plumed  of  head-gear, 
and  prone  to  have  at  her  heels  a  white,  woolly, 
pink-eyed  dog. 

The  masculine  Clark  Streeter?  I  throw  up 
my  hands.  Pray  remember  that  South  Clark 
Street  embraces  the  dime  lodging  house,  pawn 
shop,  hotel,  theater,  chop-suey  and  railway  office 


THAT  HOME-TOWN  FEELING 

district,  all  within  a  few  blocks.  From  the  side 
walk  in  front  of  his  groggery,  "Bath  House 
John"  can  see  the  City  Hall.  The  trim,  khaki- 
garbed  enlistment  officer  rubs  elbows  with  the 
lodging  house  burn.  The  masculine  Clark 
Streeter  may  be  of  the  kind  that  begs  a  dime 
for  a  bed,  or  he  may  loll  in  manicured  luxury  at 
the  marble-lined  hotel.  South  Clark  Street  is 
so  splendidly  indifferent. 

Copy-hunting,  I  approached  Tony  with  hope 
in  my  heart,  a  smile  on  my  lips,  and  a  nickel  in 
my  hand. 

"Philadelphia —  er  — Inquirer?"  I  asked, 
those  being  the  city  and  paper  which  fire  my 
imagination  least. 

Tony  whipped  it  out,  dexterously. 

I  looked  at  his  keen  blue  eye,  his  lean  brown 
face,  and  his  punishing  jaw,  and  I  knew  that  no 
airy  persiflage  would  deceive  him.  Boldly  I 
waded  in. 

"I  write  for  the  magazines,"  said  I. 

"Do  they  know  it?"  grinned  Tony. 

"Just  beginning  to  be  faintly  aware.  Your 
stand  looks  like  a  story  to  me.  Tell  me,  does 
one  ever  come  your  way?  For  instance,  don't 
they  come  here  asking  for  their  home-town  paper 

[159] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

— sobs  in  their  voice — grasp  the  sheet  with  trem 
bling  hands — type  swims  in  a  misty  haze  before 
their  eyes — turn  aside  to  brush  away  a  tear — 
all  that  kind  of  stuff,  you  know?" 

Tony's  grin  threatened  his  cold-sore.  You 
can't  stand  on  the  corner  of  Clark  and  Randolph 
all  those  years  without  getting  wise  to  every 
thing  there  is. 

"I'm  on,"  said  he,  ubut  I'm  afraid  I  can't  ac 
commodate,  girlie.  I  guess  my  ear  ain't  attuned 
to  that  sob  stuff.  What's  that?  Yessir.  Nossir, 
fifteen  cents.  Well,  I  can't  help  that;  fifteen's 
the  reg'lar  price  of  foreign  papers.  Thanks. 
There,  did  you  see  that?  I  bet  that  gink  give 
up  fifteen  of  his  last  two  bits  to  get  that  paper. 
O,  well,  sometimes  they  look  happy,  and  then 
again  sometimes  they — Yes'm.  Mississippi? 
Five  cents.  Los  Vegas  Optic  right  here.  Heh 
there!  You're  forgettin'  your  change! — 
an'  then  again  sometimes  they  look  all  to 
the  doleful.  Say,  stick  around.  Maybe 
somebody'll  start  something.  You  can't  never 
tell." 

And  then  this  happened. 

A  man  approached  Tony's  news  stand  from 
the  north,  and  a  woman  approached  Tony's 
[1 60] 


THAT  HOME-TOWN  FEELING 

\$. 

news  stand  from  the  south.  They  brought  my 
story  with  them. 

The  woman  reeked  of  the  city.  I  hope  you 
know  what  I  mean.  She  bore  the  stamp,  and  seal, 
and  imprint  of  it.  It  had  ground  its  heel  down 
on  her  face.  At  the  front  of  her  coat  she  wore 
a  huge  bunch  of  violets,  with  a  fleshly  tuberose 
rising  from  its  center.  Her  furs  were  volumi 
nous.  Her  hat  was  hidden  beneath  the  cascades 
of  a  green  willow  plume.  A  green  willow  plume 
would  make  Edna  May  look  sophisticated.  She 
walked  with  that  humping  hip  movement  which 
city  women  acquire.  She  carried  a  jangling 
handful  of  useless  gold  trinkets.  Her  heels  were 
too  high,  and  her  hair  too  yellow,  and  her  lips 
too  red,  and  her  nose  too  white,  and  her  cheeks 
too  pink.  Everything  about  her  was  "too," 
from  the  black  stitching  on  her  white  gloves  to 
the  buckle  of  brilliants  in  her  hat.  The  city 
had  her,  body  and  soul,  and  had  fashioned  her 
in  its  metallic  cast  You  would  have  sworn 
that  she  had  never  seen  flowers  growing  in  a 
field. 

Said  she  to  Tony: 

"Got  a  Kewaskum  Courier f" 

As  she  said  it  the  man  stopped  at  the  stand 
[161] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

and  put  his  question.  To  present  this  thing 
properly  I  ought  to  be  able  to  describe  them  both 
at  the  same  time,  like  a  juggler  keeping  two 
balls  in  the  air  at  once.  Kindly  carry  the  lady 
in  your  mind's  eye.  The  man  was  tall  and  raw- 
boned,  with  very  white  teeth,  very  blue  eyes  and 
an  open-faced  collar  that  allowed  full  play  to  an 
objectionably  apparent  Adam's  apple.  His  hair 
and  mustache  were  sandy,  his  gait  loping.  His 
manner,  clothes,  and  complexion  breathed  of 
Waco,  Texas  (or  is  it  Arizona?) 

Said  he  to  Tony: 

"Let  me  have  the  London  Times." 

Well,  there  you  are.  I  turned  an  accusing 
eye  on  Tony. 

"And  you  said  no  stories  came  your  way,1'  I 
murmured,  reproachfully. 

"Help  yourself,"  said  Tony. 

The  blonde  lady  grasped  the  Kewaskum 
Courier.  Her  green  plume  appeared  to  be  un 
duly  agitated  as  she  searched  its  columns.  The 
sheet  rattled.  There  was  no  breeze.  The 
hands  in  the  too-black  stitched  gloves  were 
trembling. 

I  turned  from  her  to  the  man  just  in  time  to 
see  the  Adam's  apple  leaping  about  unpleasantly 


THAT  HOME-TOWN  FEELING 

and  convulsively.  Whereupon  I  jumped  to  two 
conclusions. 

Conclusion  one :  Any  woman  whose  hands  can 
tremble  over  the  Kewaskum  Courier  is  home 
sick. 

Conclusion  two :  Any  man,  any  part  of  whose 
anatomy  can  become  convulsed  over  the  London 
Times  is  homesick. 

She  looked  up  from  her  Courier.  He  glanced 
away  from  his  Times.  As  the  novelists  have 
it,  their  eyes  met.  And  there,  in  each  pair  of 
eyes  there  swam  that  misty  haze  about  which 
I  had  so  earnestly  consulted  Tony.  The  Green 
Plume  took  an  involuntary  step  forward.  The 
Adam's  Apple  did  the  same.  They  spoke  simul 
taneously. 

"They're  going  to  pave  Main  Street,"  said 
the  Green  Plume,  "and  Mrs.  Wilcox,  that  was 
Jen  Meyers,  has  got  another  baby  girl,  and  the 
ladies  of  the  First  M.  E.  made  seven  dollars  and 
sixty-nine  cents  on  their  needle-work  bazaar  and 
missionary  tea.  I  ain't  been  home  in  eleven 
years." 

"Hallem  is  trying  for  Parliament  in  West- 
chester  and  the  King  is  back  at  Windsor.  My 
mother  wears  a  lace  cap  down  to  breakfast,  and 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

the  place  is  famous  for  its  tapestries  and  yew 
trees  and  family  ghost.  I  haven't  been  home  in 
twelve  years.' ' 

The  great,  soft  light  of  fellow  feeling  and 
sympathy  glowed  in  the  eyes  of  each.  The 
Green  Plume  took  still  another  step  forward 
and  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  (as  is  the  way  of 
Green  Plumes  the  world  over) . 

"Why  don't  you  go,  kid?"  she  inquired, 
softly. 

Adam's  Apple  gnawed  at  his  mustache  end. 
"I'm  the  black  sheep.  Why  don't  you?" 

The  blonde  lady  looked  down  at  her  glove 
tips.  Her  lower  lip  was  caught  between  her 
teeth. 

"What's  the  feminine  for  black  sheep?  I'm 
that.  Anyway,  I'd  be  afraid  to  go  home  for 
fear  it  would  be  too  much  of  a  shock  for  them 
when  they  saw  my  hair.  They  wasn't  in  on  the 
intermediate  stages  when  it  was  chestnut,  au 
burn,  Titian,  gold,  and  orange  colored.  I  want 
to  spare  their  feelings.  The  last  time  they  saw 
me  it  was  just  plain  brown.  Where  I  come  from 
a  woman  who  dyes  her  hair  when  it  is  beginning 
to  turn  gray  is  considered  as  good  as  lost. 
Funny,  ain't  it?  And  yet  I  remember  the  minis- 


THAT  HOME-TOWN  FEELING 

ter's  wife  used  to  wear  false  teeth — the  kind  that 
clicks.  But  hair  is  different." 

"Dear  lady,"  said  the  blue-eyed  man,  "it 
would  make  no  difference  to  your  own  people.  I 
know  they  would  be  happy  to  see  you,  hair  and 
all.  One's  own  people " 

"My  folks?  That's  just  it.  If  the  Prodigal 
Son  had  been  a  daughter  they'd  probably  have 
handed  her  one  of  her  sister's  mother  hubbards, 
and  put  her  to  work  washing  dishes  in  the 
kitchen.  You  see,  after  Ma  died  my  brother 
married,  and  I  went  to  live  with  him  and  Lil. 
I  was  an  ugly  little  mug,  and  it  looked  all  to  the 
Cinderella  for  me,  with  the  coach,  and  four,  and 
prince  left  out.  Lil  was  the  village  beauty  when 
my  brother  married  her,  and  she  kind  of  got  into 
the  habit  of  leaving  the  heavy  role  to  me,  and 
confining  herself  to  thinking  parts.  One  day  I 
took  twenty  dollars  and  came  to  the  city.  Oh, 
I  paid  it  back  long  ago,  but  I've  never  been  home 
since.  But  say,  do  you  know  every  time  I  get 
near  a  news  stand  like  this  I  grab  the  home-town 
paper.  Til  bet  I've  kept  track  every  time  my 
sister-in-law's  sewing  circle  has  met  for  the  last 
ten  years,  and  the  spring  the  paper  said  they 
built  a  new  porch  I  was  just  dying  to  write  and 

[165] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

ask  'em  what  they  did  with  the  Virginia  creeper 
that  used  to  cover  the  whole  front  and  sides  of 
the  old  porch." 

"Look  here,"  said  the  man,  very  abruptly, 
"if  it's  money  you  need,  why " 

"Me!  Do  I  look  like  a  touch?  Now 
you " 

"Finest  stock  farm  and  ranch  in  seven  coun 
ties.  I  come  to  Chicago  once  a  year  to  sell.  I've 
got  just  thirteen  thousand  nestling  next  to  my 
left  floating  rib  this  minute." 

The  eyes  of  the  woman  with  the  green  plume 
narrowed  down  to  two  glittering  slits.  A  new 
look  came  into  her  face — a  look  that  matched 
her  hat,  and  heels  and  gloves  and  complexion 
and  hair. 

"Thirteen  thousand !  Thirteen  thous 

Say,  isn't  it  chilly  on  this  corner,  h'm?  I  know 
a  kind  of  a  restaurant  just  around  the  corner 
where " 

"It's  no  use,"  said  the  sandy-haired  man, 
gently.  "And  I  wouldn't  have  said  that,  if  I 
were  you.  I  was  going  back  to-day  on  the  5  125, 
but  I'm  sick  of  it  all.  So  are  you,  or  you 
wouldn't  have  said  what  you  just  said.  Listen. 
Let's  go  back  home,  you  and  I.  The  sight  of 
[166] 


THAT  HOME-TOWN  FEELING 

a  Navajo  blanket  nauseates  me.  The  thought 
of  those  prairies  makes  my  eyes  ache.  I  know 
that  if  I  have  to  eat  one  more  meal  cooked  by 
that  Chink  of  mine  I'll  hang  him  by  his  own  pig 
tail.  Those  rangy  western  ponies  aren't  horse 
flesh,  fit  for  a  man  to  ride.  Why,  back  home 
our  stables  were —  Look  here.  I  want  to  see  a 
silver  tea-service,  with  a  coat-of-arms  on  it.  I 
want  to  dress  for  dinner,  and  take  in  a  girl  with 
a  white  gown  and  smooth  white  shoulders.  My 
sister  clips  roses  in  the  morning,  before  break 
fast,  in  a  pink  ruffled  dress  and  garden  gloves. 
Would  you  believe  that,  here,  on  Clark  Street, 
with  a  whiskey  sign  overhead,  and  the  stock 
yard  smells  undernose?  O,  hell!  I'm  going 
home." 

"Home?"  repeated  the  blonde  lady. 
"Home?"  The  sagging  lines  about  her  flaccid 
chin  took  on  a  new  look  of  firmness  and  resolve. 
The  light  of  determination  glowed  in  her  eyes. 

"I'll  beat  you  to  it,"  she  said.  "I'm  going 
home,  too.  I'll  be  there  to-morrow.  I'm  dead 
sick  of  this.  Who  cares  whether  I  live  or  die? 
It's  just  one  darned  round  of  grease  paint,  and 
sky  blue  tights,  and  new  boarding  houses  and 
humping  over  to  the  theater  every  night,  going 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

on,  and  humping  back  to  the  room  again.  I  want 
to  wash  up  some  supper  dishes  with  egg  on  'em, 
and  set  some  yeast  for  bread,  and  pop  a  dishpan 
full  of  corn,  and  put  a  shawl  over  my  head  and 
run  over  to  Millie  Krause's  to  get  her  kimono 
sleeve  pattern.  I'm  sour  on  this  dirt  and  noise. 
I  want  to  spend  the  rest  of  my  life  in  a  place  so 
that  when  I  die  they'll  put  a  column  in  the  paper, 
with  a  verse  at  the  top,  and  all  the  neighbors'll 
come  in  and  help  bake  up.  Here — why,  here 
Fd  just  be  two  lines  on  the  want  ad  page,  with 
fifty  cents  extra  for  'Kewaskum  paper  please 
copy.'  " 

The  man  held  out  his  hand.  uGood-bye,"  he 
said,  "and  please  excuse  me  if  I  say  God  bless 
you.  I've  never  really  wanted  to  say  it  before, 
so  it's  quite  extraordinary.  My  name's  Guy 
Peel." 

The  white  glove,  with  its  too-conspicuous 
black  stitching,  disappeared  within  his  palm. 

"Mine's  Mercedes  Meron,  late  of  the  Morn 
ing  Glory  Burlesquers,  but  from  now  on  Sadie 
Hayes,  of  Kewaskum,  Wisconsin.  Good-bye 
and — well — God  bless  you,  too.  Say,  I  hope 
you  don't  think  I'm  in  the  habit  of  talking  to 
strange  gents  like  this." 

[168] 


THAT  HOME-TOWN  FEELING 

"I  am  quite  sure  you  are  not,"  said  Guy  Peel, 
very  gravely,  and  bowed  slightly  before  he 
went  south  on  Clark  Street,  and  she  went 
north. 

Dear  Reader,  will  you  take  my  hand  while  I 
assist  you  to  make  a  one  year's  leap.  Whoop-la ! 
There  you  are. 

A  man  and  a  woman  approached  Tony's 
news  stand.  You  are  quite  right.  But  her  wil 
low  plume  was  purple  this  time.  A  purple 
willow  plume  would  make  Mario  Doro  look 
sophisticated.  The  man  was  sandy-haired,  raw- 
boned,  with  a  loping  gait,  very  blue  eyes,  very 
white  teeth,  and  an  objectionably  apparent 
Adam's  apple.  He  came  from  the  north,  and 
she  from  the  south. 

In  story  books,  and  on  the  stage,  when  two 
people  meet  unexpectedly  after  a  long  separation 
they  always  stop  short,  bring  one  hand  up  to 
their  breast,  and  say:  "You!"  Sometimes, 
especially  in  the  case  where  the  heroine  chances 
on  the  villain,  they  say,  simultaneously:  "Youl 
Here !"  I  have  seen  people  reunited  under  sur 
prising  circumstances,  but  they  never  said, 
"You!"  They  said  something  quite  unmelodra- 
matic,  and  commonplace,  such  as:  "Well,  look 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

who's  here!"  or,  "My  land!     If  it  ain't  Ed! 
How's  Ed?" 

So  it  was  that  the  Purple  Willow  Plume  and 
the  Adam's  Apple  stopped,  shook  hands,  and 
viewed  one  another  while  the  Plume  said,  "I 
kind  of  thought  I'd  bump  into  you.  Felt  it  in 
my  bones."  And  the  Adam's  Apple  said: 

"Then  you're  not  living  in  Kewaskum — er — 
Wisconsin  ?" 

"Not  any,"  responded  she,  briskly.  "How 
do  you  happen  to  be  straying  away  from  the 
tapestries,  and  the  yew  trees  and  the  ghost,  and 
the  pink  roses,  and  the  garden  gloves,  and  the 
silver  tea-service  with  the  coat-of-arms  on  it?" 

A  slow,  grim  smile  overspread  the  features 
of  the  man.  "You  tell  yours  first,"  he  said. 

"Well,"  began  she,  "in  the  first  place,  my 
name's  Mercedes  Meron,  of  the  Morning  Glory 
Burlesquers,  formerly  Sadie  Hayes  of  Kewas 
kum,  Wisconsin.  I  went  home  next  day,  like  I 
said  I  would.  Say,  Mr.  Peel  (you  said  Peel, 
didn't  you?  Guy  Peel.  Nice,  neat  name),  to 
this  day,  when  I  eat  lobster  late  at  night,  and 
have  dreams,  it's  always  about  that  visit  home." 

"How  long  did  you  stay?" 

"I'm  coming  to  that.    Or  maybe  you  can  fig- 


THAT  HOME-TOWN  FEELING 

ure  it  out  yourself  when  I  tell  you  IVe  been 
back  eleven  months.  I  wired  the  folks  I  was 
coming,  and  then  I  came  before  they  had  a 
chance  to  answer.  When  the  train  reached 
Kewaskum  I  stepped  off  into  the  arms  of  a  dowd 
in  a  home-made-made-over-year-before-last  suit, 
and  a  hat  that  would  have  been  funny  if  it 
hadn't  been  so  pathetic.  I  grabbed  her  by  the 
shoulders,  and  I  held  her  off,  and  looked — 
looked  at  the  wrinkles,  and  the  sallow  complex 
ion,  and  the  coat  with  the  sleeves  in  wrong,  and 
the  mashed  hat  (I  told  you  Lil  used  to  be  the 
village  peach,  didn't  I?)  and  I  says: 

"  Tor  Gawd's  sakes,  Lil,  does  your  husband 
beat  you?' 

"  'Steve !'  she  shrieks,  'beat  me !  You  must  be 
crazy !' 

"  'Well,  if  he  don't,  he  ought  to.  Those 
clothes  are  grounds  for  divorce,'  I  says. 

"Mr.  Guy  Peel,  it  took  me  just  four  weeks 
to  get  wise  to  the  fact  that  the  way  to  cure  home 
sickness  is  to  go  home.  I  spent  those  four  weeks 
trying  to  revolutionize  my  sister-in-law's  house, 
dress,  kids,  husband,  wall  paper  and  parlor  car 
pet.  I  took  all  the  doilies  from  under  the  orna 
ments  and  spoke  my  mind  on  the  subject  of  the 

[171] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

hand-painted  lamp,  and  Lil  hates  me  for  it  yet, 
and  will  to  her  dying  day.  I  fitted  three  dresses 
for  her,  and  made  her  get  some  corsets  that 
she'll  never  wear.  They  have  roast  pork  for 
dinner  on  Sundays,  and  they  never  go  to  the 
theater,  and  they  like  bread  pudding,  and  they're 
happy.  I  wasn't.  They  treated  me  fine,  and  it 
was  home,  all  right,  but  not  my  home.  It  was 
the  same,  but  I  was  different.  Eleven  years 
away  from  anything  makes  it  shrink,  if  you 
know  what  I  mean.  I  guess  maybe  you  do.  I 
remember  that  I  used  to  think  that  the  Grand 
View  Hotel  was  a  regular  little  oriental  palace 
that  was  almost  too  luxurious  to  be  respectable, 
and  that  the  traveling  men  who  stopped  there 
were  gods,  and  just  to  prance  past  the  hotel  after 
supper  had  the  Atlantic  City  board  walk  looking 
like  a  back  alley  on  a  rainy  night.  Well,  every 
thing  had  sort  of  shriveled  up  just  like  that. 
The  popcorn  gave  me  indigestion,  and  I  burned 
the  skin  off  my  nose  popping  it.  Kneading 
bread  gave  me  the  backache,  and  the  blamed 
stuff  wouldn't  raise  right.  I  got  so  I  was  crazy 
to  hear  the  roar  of  an  L  train,  and  the  sound 
of  a  crossing  policeman's  whistle.  I  got  to 
thinking  how  Michigan  Avenue  looks,  down- 


THAT  HOME-TOWN  FEELING 

town,  with  the  lights  shining  down  on  the  as 
phalt,  and  all  those  people  eating  in  the  swell 
hotels,  and  the  autos,  and  the  theater  crowds 
and  the  windows,  and — well,  I'm  back.  Glad  I 
went?  You  said  it.  Because  it  made  me  so 
darned  glad  to  get  back.  I've  found  out  one 
thing,  and  it's  a  great  little  lesson  when  you  get 
it  learned.  Most  of  us  are  where  we  are  because 
we  belong  there,  and  if  we  didn't,  we  wouldn't 
be.  Say,  that  does  sound  mixed,  don't  it?  But 
it's  straight.  Now  you  tell  yours." 

"I  think  you've  said  it  all,"  began  Guy  Peel. 
"It's  queer,  isn't  it,  how  twelve  years  of 
America  will  spoil  one  for  afternoon  tea,  and 
yew  trees,  and  tapestries,  and  lace  caps,  and 
roses.  The  mater  was  glad  to  see  me,  but  she 
said  I  smelled  woolly.  They  think  a  Navajo 
blanket  is  a  thing  the  Indians  wear  on  the  war 
path,  and  they  don't  know  whether  Texas  is  a 
state,  or  a  mineral  water.  It  was  slow — slow. 
About  the  time  they  were  taking  afternoon  tea, 
I'd  be  reckoning  how  the  boys  would  be  round 
ing  up  the  cattle  for  the  night,  and  about  the 
time  we'd  sit  down  to  dinner  something  seemed 
to  whisk  the  dinner  table,  and  the  flowers,  and 
the  men  and  women  in  evening  clothes  right  out 

[173] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

of  sight,  like  magic,  and  I  could  see  the  boys 
stretched  out  in  front  of  the  bunk  house  after 
their  supper  of  bacon,  and  beans,  and  biscuit, 
and  coffee.  They'd  be  smoking  their  pipes  that 
smelled  to  Heaven,  and  further,  and  Wing 
would  be  squealing  one  of  his  creepy  old  Chink 
songs  out  in  the  kitchen,  and  the  sky  would  be — 
say,  Miss  Meron,  did  you  ever  see  the  night  sky, 
out  West?  Purple,  you  know,  and  soft  as  soap 
suds,  and  so  near  that  you  want  to  reach  up  and 
touch  it  with  your  hand.  Toward  the  end  my 
mother  used  to  take  me  off  in  a  corner  and  tell 
me  that  I  hadn't  spoken  a  word  to  the  little  girl 
that  I  had  taken  in  to  dinner,  and  that  if  I 
couldn't  forget  my  uncouth  western  ways  for  an 
hour  or  two,  at  least,  perhaps  I'd  better  not  try 
to  mingle  with  civilized  people.  I  discovered 
that(home  isn't  always  the  place  where  you  were 
born  and  bred.  Home  is  the  place  where  your 
everyday  clothes  are,  and  where  somebody,  or 
something  needs  you. )  They  didn't  need  me  over 
there  in  England.  Lord  no !  I  was  sick  for  the 
sight  of  a  Navajo  blanket.  My  shack's  glowing 
with  them.  And  my  books  needed  me,  and  the 
boys,  and  the  critters,  and  Kate." 

"Kate?"  repeated  Miss  Meron,  quickly. 

[174] 


THAT  HOME-TOWN  FEELING 

"Kate's  my  horse.  I'm  going  back  on  the 
5 125  to-night.  This  is  my  regular  trip,  you 
know.  I  came  around  here  to  buy  a  paper,  be 
cause  it  has  become  a  habit.  And  then,  too,  I 
sort  of  felt — well,  something  told  me  that 
you " 

"You're  a  nice  boy,"  said  Miss  Meron.  "By 
the  way,  did  I  tell  you  that  I  married  the  man 
ager  of  the  show  the  week  after  I  got  back?  We 
go  to  Bloomington  to-night,  and  then  we  jump 
to  St.  Paul.  I  came  around  here  just  as  usual, 
because — well — because " 

Tony's  gift  for  remembering  faces  and  facts 
amounts  to  genius.  With  two  deft  movements 
he  whisked  two  papers  from  among  the  many 
in  the  rack,  and  held  them  out. 

"Kewaskum  Courier?"  he  suggested. 

"Nix,"  said  Mercedes  Meron,  "I'll  take  a 
Chicago  Scream." 

"London  Times?"  said  Tony. 

"No,"  replied  Guy  Peel.  "Give  me  the  San 
Antonio  Express" 


[175] 


X 

THE  HOMELY  HEROINE 

ILLIE  WHITCOMB,  of  the  fancy  goods 
and  notions,  beckoned  me  with  her  finger. 
I  had  been  standing  at  Kate  O'Malley's  counter, 
pretending  to  admire  her  new  basket-weave  suit 
ings,  but  in  reality  reveling  in  her  droll  account 
of  how,  in  the  train  coming  up  from  Chicago, 
Mrs.  Judge  Porterfield  had  worn  the  negro  por 
ter's  coat  over  her  chilly  shoulders  in  mistake 
for  her  husband's.  Kate  O'Malley  can  tell  a 
funny  story  in  a  way  to  make  the  after-dinner 
pleasantries  of  a  Washington  diplomat  sound 
like  the  clumsy  jests  told  around  the  village  gro 
cery  stove. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  I  read  that  last 
story  of  yours,"  said  Millie,  sociably,  when  I 
had  strolled  over  to  her  counter,  "and  I  liked 
it,  all  but  the  heroine.  She  had  an  'adorable 
throat'  and  hair  that  'waved  away  from  her 
white  brow/  and  eyes  that  'now  were  blue  and 
now  gray/  Say,  why  don't  you  write  a  story 
about  an  ugly  girl  ?" 


THE  HOMELY  HEROINE 

"My  land!"  protested  I.  "It's  bad  enough 
trying  to  make  them  accept  my  stones  as  it  is. 
That  last  heroine  was  a  raving  beauty,  but  she 
came  back  eleven  times  before  the  editor  of 
Blakely's  succumbed  to  her  charms." 

Millie's  fingers  were  busy  straightening  the 
contents  of  a  tray  of  combs  and  imitation  jet 
barrettes.  Millie's  fingers  were  not  intended  for 
that  task.  They  are  slender,  tapering  fingers, 
pink-tipped  and  sensitive. 

"I  should  think,"  mused  she,  rubbing  a  cloudy 
piece  of  jet  with  a  bit  of  soft  cloth,  "that  they'd 
welcome  a  homely  one  with  relief.  These  god 
desses  are  so  cloying." 

Millie  Whitcomb's  black  hair  is  touched  with 
soft  mists  of  gray,  and  she  wears  lavender  shirt 
waists  and  white  stocks  edged  with  lavender. 
There  is  a  Colonial  air  about  her  that  has  noth 
ing  to  do  with  celluloid  combs  and  imitation  jet 
barrettes.  It  breathes  of  dim  old  rooms,  rich 
with  the  tones  of  mahogany  and  old  brass,  and 
Millie  in  the  midst  of  it,  gray-gowned,  a  soft 
white  fichu  crossed  upon  her  breast. 

In  our  town  the  clerks  are  not  the  pert  and 
gum-chewing  young  persons  that  story-writers 
are  wont  to  describe.  The  girls  at  Bascom's  are 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

institutions.  They  know  us  all  by  our  first 
names,  and  our  lives  are  as  an  open  book  to 
them.  Kate  O'Malley,  who  has  been  at  Bas- 
com's  for  so  many  years  that  she  is  rumored  to 
have  stock  in  the  company,  may  be  said  to  gov 
ern  the  fashions  of  our  town.  She  is  wont  to 
say,  when  we  express  a  fancy  for  gray  as  the 
color  of  our  new  spring  suit: 

"Oh,  now,  Nellie,  don't  get  gray  again.  You 
had  it  year  before  last,  and  don't  you  think  it 
was  just  the  least  leetle  bit  trying  ?  Let  me  show 
you  that  green  that  came  in  yesterday.  I  said 
the  minute  I  clapped  my  eyes  on  it  that  it  was 
just  the  color  for  you,  with  your  brown  hair  and 
all." 

And  we  end  by  deciding  on  the  green. 

The  girls  at  Bascom's  are  not  gossips — they 
are  too  busy  for  that — but  they  may  be  said  to 
be  delightfully  well  informed.  How  could  they 
be  otherwise  when  we  go  to  Bascom's  for  our 
wedding  dresses  and  party  favors  and  baby  flan 
nels?  There  is  news  at  Bascom's  that  our  daily 
paper  never  hears  of,  and  wouldn't  dare  print 
if  it  did. 

So  when  Millie  Whitcomb,  of  the  fancy  goods 
and  notions,  expressed  her  hunger  for  a  homely 


THE  HOMELY  HEROINE 

heroine,  I  did  not  resent  the  suggestion.  On  the 
contrary,  it  sent  me  home  in  thoughtful  mood, 
for  Millie  Whitcomb  has  acquired  a  knowledge 
of  human  nature  in  the  dispensing  of  her  fancy 
goods  and  notions.  It  set  me  casting  about  for 
a  really  homely  heroine. 

There  never  has  been  a  really  ugly  heroine  in 
fiction.  Authors  have  started  bravely  out  to 
write  of  an  unlovely  woman,  but  they  never  have 
had  the  courage  to  allow  her  to  remain  plain. 
'  On  Page  237  she  puts  on  a  black  lace  dress  and 
red  roses,  and  the  combination  brings  out  unex 
pected  tawny  lights  in  her  hair,  and  olive  tints 
in  her  cheeks,  and  there  she  is,  the  same  old 
beautiful  heroine.  Even  in  the  "Duchess"  books 
one  finds  the  simple  Irish  girl,  on  donning  a 
green  corduroy  gown  cut  square  at  the  neck, 
transformed  into  a  wild-rose  beauty,  at  sight  of 
whom  a  ball-room  is  hushed  into  admiring  awe. 
There's  the  case  of  Jane  Eyre,  too.  She  is  con 
stantly  described  as  plain  and  mouse-like,  but 
there  are  covert  hints  as  to  her  gray  eyes  and 
slender  figure  and  clear  skin,  and  we  have  a 
sneaking  notion  that  she  wasn't  such  a  fright 
after  all. 

Therefore,  when  I  tell  you  that  I  am  choos- 

[179] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

ing  Pearlie  Schultz  as  my  leading  lady  you  are 
to  understand  that  she  is  ugly,  not  only  when 
the  story  opens,  but  to  the  bitter  end.  /  In  the 
first  place,  Pearlie  is  fat.  Not  plump,  or 
x\  rounded,  or  dimpled,  or  deliciously  curved,  but 
FAT.  She  bulges  in  all  the  wrong  places,  in 
cluding  her  chin.  ]  (Sister,  who  has  a  way  of 
snooping  over  my  desk  in  my  absence,  says  that 
I  may  as  well  drop  this  now,  because  nobody 
would  ever  read  it,  anyway,  least  of  all  any  sane 
editor.  I  protest  when  I  discover  that  Sis  has 
been  over  my  papers.  It  bothers  me.  But  she 
says  you  have  to  do  these  things  when  you  have 
a  genius  in  the  house,  and  cites  the  case  of  Kip 
ling's  "Recessional,"  which  was  rescued  from 
the  depths  of  his  wastebasket  by  his  wife.) 

Pearlie  Schultz  used  to  sit  on  the  front  porch 
summer  evenings  and  watch  the  couples  stroll 
by,  and  weep  in  her  heart.  |  A  fat  girl  with  a 
fat  girl's  soul  is  a  comedy.  But  a  fat  girl  with  a 
thin  girl's  soul  is  a  tragedy.  Pearlie,  in  spite  of 
her  two  hundred  pounds,  had  the  soul  of  a  wil 
low  wand. 

^/    The  walk  in  front  of   Pearlie's  house  was 

guarded  by  a  row  of  big  trees  that  cast  kindly 

shadows.     The  strolling  couples  used  to  step 

[180] 


THE  HOMELY  HEROINE 

gratefully  into  the  embrace  of  these  shadows, 
and  from  them  into  other  embraces.  Pearlie, 
sitting  on  the  porch,  could  see  them  dimly,  al 
though  they  could  not  see  her.  She  could  not 
help  remarking  that  these  strolling  couples  were 
strangely  lacking  in  sprightly  conversation. 
Their  remarks  were  but  fragmentary,  disjointed 
affairs,  spoken  in  low  tones  with  a  queer,  tremu 
lous  note  in  them.  When  they  reached  the  deep 
est,  blackest,  kindliest  shadow,  which  fell  just 
before  the  end  of  the  row  of  trees,  the  strolling 
couples  almost  always  stopped,  and  then  there 
came  a  quick  movement,  and  a  little  smothered 
cry  from  the  girl,  and  then  a  sound,  and  then  a 
silence.  Pearlie,  sitting  alone  on  the  porch  in 
the  dark,  listened  to  these  things  and  blushed 
furiously.  Pearlie  had  never  strolled  into  the 
kindly  shadows  with  a  little  beating  of  the  heart, 
and  she  had  never  been  surprised  with  a  quick 
arm  about  her  and  eager  lips  pressed  warmly 
against  her  own.  \/ 

In  the  daytime  Pearlie  worked  as  public  ste 
nographer  at  the  Burke  Hotel.  She  rose  at 
seven  in  the  morning,  and  rolled  for  fifteen  min 
utes,  and  lay  on  her  back  and  elevated  her  heels 
in  the  air,  and  stood  stiff-kneed  while  she 

[181] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

touched  the  floor  with  her  finger  tips  one  hun 
dred  times,  and  went  without  her  breakfast.  At 
the  end  of  each  month  she  usually  found  that 
she  weighed  three  pounds  more  than  she  had  the 
month  before. 

The  folks  at  home  never  joked  with  Pearlie 
about  her  weight  Even  one's  family  has  some 
respect  for  a  life  sorrow.  Whenever  Pearlie 
asked  that  inevitable  question  of  the  fat  woman: 
"Am  I  as  fat  as  she  is?"  her  mother  always  an 
swered:  "You!  Well,  I  should  hope  not! 
You're  looking  real  peaked  lately,  Pearlie.  And 
your  blue  skirt  just  ripples  in  the  back,  it's  get 
ting  so  big  for  you." 

Of  such  blessed  stuff  are  mothers  made. 

But  if  the  gods  had  denied  Pearlie  all  charms 
of  face  or  form,  they  had  been  decent  enough 
to  bestow  on  her  one  gift.  Pearlie  could  cook 
like  an  angel;  no,  better  than  an  angel,  for  no 
angel  could  be  a  really  clever  cook  and  wear 
those  flowing  kimono-like  sleeves.  They'd  get 
into  the  soup.  Pearlie  could  take  a  piece  of 
rump  and  some  suet  and  an  onion  and  a  cup  or 
so  of  water,  and  evolve  a  pot  roast  that  you  could 
cut  with  a  fork.  She  could  turn  out  a  surpris 
ingly  good  cake  with  surprisingly  few  eggs,  all 


THE  HOMELY  HEROINE 

covered  with  white  icing,  and  bearing  cunning 
little  jelly  figures  on  its  snowy  bosom.  She  could 
beat  up  biscuits  that  fell  apart  at  the  lightest 
pressure,  revealing  little  pools  of  golden  butter 
within.  Oh,  Pearlie  could  cook! 

On  week  days  Pearlie  rattled  the  typewriter 
keys,  but  on  Sundays  she  shooed  her  mother  out 
of  the  kitchen.  Her  mother  went,  protesting 
faintly : 

"Now,  Pearlie,  don't  fuss  so  for  dinner.  You 
ought  to  get  your  rest  on  Sunday  instead  of 
stewing  over  a  hot  stove  all  morning." 

"Hot  fiddlesticks,  ma,"  Pearlie  would  say, 
cheerily.  "It  ain't  hot,  because  it's  a  gas  stove. 
And  I'll  only  get  fat  if  I  sit  around.  You  put 
on  your  black-and-white  and  go  to  church.  Call 
me  when  you've  got  as  far  as  your  corsets,  and 
I'll  puff  your  hair  for  you  in  the  back." 

In  her  capacity  of  public  stenographer  at  the 
Burke  Hotel,  it  was  Pearlie's  duty  to  take  letters 
dictated  by  traveling  men  and  beginning: 
"Yours  of  the  loth  at  hand.  In  reply  would 
say.  .  .  f"  or:  "Enclosed  please  find,  etc."  As 
clinching  proof  of  her  plainness  it  may  be  stated 
that  none  of  the  traveling  men,  not  even  Max 
Baum,  who  was  so  fresh  that  the  girl  at  the 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

cigar  counter  actually  had  to  squelch  him,  ever 
called  Pearlie  "baby  doll,"  or  tried  to  make  a 
date  with  her.  Not  that  Pearlie  would  ever  have 
allowed  them  to.  But  she  never  had  had  to  re 
prove  them.  During  pauses  in  dictation  she 
had  a  way  of  peering  near-sightedly  over  her 
glasses  at  the  dapper,  well-dressed  traveling 
salesman  who  was  rolling  off  the  items  on  his 
sale  bill.  That  is  a  trick  which  would  make 
the  prettiest  kind  of  a  girl  look  owlish. 

On  the  night  that  Sam  Miller  strolled  up  to 
talk  to  her,  Pearlie  was  working  late.  She  had 
promised  to  get  out  a  long  and  intricate  bill  for 
Max  Baum,  who  travels  for  Kuhn  and  Kling- 
man,  so  that  he  might  take  the  nine  o'clock  even 
ing  train.  The  irrepressible  Max  had  departed 
with  much  eclat  and  clatter,  and  Pearlie  was  pre 
paring  to  go  home  when  Sam  approached  her. 

Sam  had  just  come  in  from  the  Gayety 
Theater  across  the  street,  whither  he  had  gone 
in  a  vain  search  for  amusement  after  supper. 
He  had  come  away  in  disgust.  A  soiled  sou- 
brette  with  orange-colored  hair  and  baby  socks 
had  swept  her  practiced  eye  over  the  audience, 
and,  attracted  by  Sam's  good-looking  blond 
head  in  the  second  row,  had  selected  him  as  the 


THE  HOMELY  HEROINE 

target  of  her  song.  She  had  run  up  to  the  ex 
treme  edge  of  the  footlights  at  the  risk  of  tee 
tering  over,  and  had  informed  Sam  through  the 
medium  of  song — to  the  huge  delight  of  the  au 
dience,  and  to  Sam's  red-faced  discomfiture — 
that  she  liked  his  smile,  and  he  was  just  her  style, 
and  just  as  cute  as  he  could  be,  and  just  the  boy 
for  her.  On  reaching  the  chorus  she  had 
whipped  out  a  small,  round  mirror  and,  assisted 
by  the  calcium-light  man  in  the  rear,  had  thrown 
a  wretched  little  spotlight  on  Sam's  head. 

Ordinarily,  Sam  would  not  have  minded  it. 
But  that  evening,  in  the  vest  pocket  just  over 
the  place  where  he  supposed  his  heart  to  be  re 
posed  his  girl's  daily  letter.  They  were  to  be 
married  on  Sam's  return  to  New  York  from  his 
first  long  trip.  In  the  letter  near  his  heart  she 
had  written  prettily  and  seriously  about  travel 
ing  men,  and  traveling  men's  wives,  and  her  lit 
tle  code  for  both.  The  fragrant,  girlish,  grave 
little  letter  had  caused  Sam  to  sour  on  the  efforts 
of  the  soiled  soubrette. 

As  soon  as  possible  he  had  fled  up  the  aisle 
and  across  the  street  to  the  hotel  writing-room. 
There  he  had  spied  Pearlie's  good-humored, 
homely  face,  and  its  contrast  with  the  silly,  red- 

[185] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

and-white  countenance  of  the  unlaundered  sou- 
brette  had  attracted  his  homesick  heart. 

Pearlie  had  taken  some  letters  from  him 
earlier  in  the  day.  Now,  in  his  hunger  for  com 
panionship,  he  strolled  up  to  her  desk,  just  as 
she  was  putting  her  typewriter  to  bed. 

"Gee!  This  is  a  lonesome  town!"  said  Sam, 
smiling  down  at  her. 

Pearlie  glanced  up  at  him,  over  her  glasses. 
"I  guess  you  must  be  from  New  York,'*  she  said. 
"I've  heard  a  real  New  Yorker  can  get  bored 
in  Paris.  In  New  York  the  sky  is  bluer,  and  the 
grass  is  greener,  and  the  girls  are  prettier,  and 
the  steaks  are  thicker,  and  the  buildings  are 
higher,  and  the  streets  are  wider,  and  the  air 
is  finer,  than  the  sky,  or  the  grass,  or  the  girls, 
or  the  steaks,  or  the  air  of  any  place  else  in  the 
world.  Ain't  they?" 

"Oh,  now,"  protested  Sam,  "quit  kiddin'  me! 
You'd  be  lonesome  for  the  little  old  town,  too, 
if  you'd  been  born  and  dragged  up  in  it,  and 
hadn't  seen  it  for  four  months." 

"New  to  the  road,  aren't  you?"  asked  Pearlie. 

Sam  blushed  a  little.    "How  did  you  know?" 

"Well,  you  generally  can  tell.  They  don't 
know  what  to  do  with  themselves  evenings,  and 
[186] 


THE  HOMELY  HEROINE 

they  look  rebellious  when  they  go  into  the  din 
ing-room.  The  old-timers  just  look  resigned." 

"You've  picked  up  a  thing  or  two  around 
here,  haven't  you?  I  wonder  if  the  time  will 
ever  come  when  I'll  look  resigned  to  a  hotel  din 
ner,  after  four  months  of  'em.  Why,  girl,  I've 
got  so  I  just  eat  the  things  that  are  covered  up — 
like  baked  potatoes  in  the  shell,  and  soft  boiled 
eggs,  and  baked  apples,  and  oranges  that  I  can 
peel,  and  nuts." 

"Why,  you  poor  kid,"  breathed  Pearlie,  her 
pale  eyes  fixed  on  him  in  motherly  pity.  "You 
oughtn't  to  do  that.  You'll  get  so  thin  your  girl 
won't  know  you." 

Sam  looked  up  quickly.  "How  in  thunder- 
ation  did  you  know ?" 

Pearlie  was  pinning  on  her  hat,  and  she  spoke 
succinctly,  her  hatpins  between  her  teeth: 
"You've  been  here  two  days  now,  and  I  notice 
you  dictate  all  your  letters  except  the  longest 
one,  and  you  write  that  one  off  in  a  corner  of  the 
writing-room  all  by  yourself,  with  your  cigar 
just  glowing  like  a  live  coal,  and  you  squint  up 
through  the  smoke,  and  grin  to  yourself." 

"Say,  would  you  mind  if  I  walked  home  with 
you?"  asked  Sam. 

[1873 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

If  Pearlie  was  surprised,  she  was  woman 
enough  not  to  show  it.  She  picked  up  her  gloves 
and  hand  bag,  locked  her  drawer  with  a  click, 
and  smiled  her  acquiescence.  And  when  Pearlie 
smiled  she  was  awful. 

It  was  a  glorious  evening  in  the  early  sum 
mer,  moonless,  velvety,  and  warm.  As  they 
strolled  homeward,  Sam  told  her  all  about  the 
Girl,  as  is  the  way  of  traveling  men  the  world 
over.  He  told  her  about  the  tiny  apartment 
they  had  taken,  and  how  he  would  be  on  the 
road  only  a  couple  of  years  more,  as  this  was 
just  a  try-out  that  the  firm  always  insisted  on. 
And  they  stopped  under  an  arc  light  while  Sam 
showed  her  the  picture  in  his  watch,  as  is  also 
the  way  of  traveling  men  since  time  immemorial. 

Pearlie  made  an  excellent  listener.  He  was 
so  boyish,  and  so  much  in  love,  and  so  pathet 
ically  eager  to  make  good  with  the  firm,  and  so 
happy  to  have  some  one  in  whom  to  confide. 

"But  it's  a  dog's  life,  after  all,"  reflected 
Sam,  again  after  the  fashion  of  all  traveling 
men.  "Any  fellow  on  the  road  earns  his  salary 
these  days,  you  bet.  I  used  to  think  it  was  all 
getting  up  when  you  felt  like  it,  and  sitting  in  the 
big  front  window  of  the  hotel,  smoking  a  cigar 
.[188] 


THE  HOMELY  HEROINE 

and  watching  the  pretty  girls  go  by.  I  wasn't 
wise  to  the  packing,  and  the  unpacking,  and  the 
rotten  train  service,  and  the  grouchy  customers, 
and  the  canceled  bills,  and  the  grub." 

Pearlie  nodded  understandingly.  "A  man 
told  me  once  that  twice  a  week  regularly  he 
dreamed  of  the  way  his  wife  cooked  noodle- 
soup." 

"My  folks  are  German,"  explained  Sam. 
"And  my  mother — can  she  cook!  Well,  I  just 
don't  seem  able  to  get  her  potato  pancakes  out 
of  my  mind.  And  her  roast  beef  tasted  and 
looked  like  roast  beef,  and  not  like  a  wet  red 
flannel  rag." 

At  this  moment  Pearlie  was  seized  with  a 
brilliant  idea.  "To-morrow's  Sunday.  You're 
going  to  Sunday  here,  aren't  you?  Come  over 
and  eat  your  dinner  with  us.  If  you  have  for 
gotten  the  taste  of  real  food,  I  can  give  you  a 
dinner  that'll  jog  your  memory." 

"Oh,  really,"  protested  Sam.  "You're  aw 
fully  good,  but  I  couldn't  think  of  it.  I '!__., 

"You  needn't  be  afraid.     I'm  not  letting  you      \ 
in  for  anything.     I  may  be  homelier  than  an 
English  suffragette,  and  I  know  my  lines  are  all 
bumps,  but  there's  one  thing  you  can't  take  away 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

from  me,  and  that's  my  cooking  hand.  I  can 
cook,  boy,  in  a  way  to  make  your  mother's  Sun 
day  dinner,  with  company  expected,  look  like 
Mrs.  Newlywed's  first  attempt  at  'riz'  biscuits. 
And  I  don't  mean  any  disrespect  to  your  mother 
when  I  say  it.  I'm  going  to  have  noodle-soup, 
and  fried  chicken,  and  hot  biscuits,  and  creamed 
beans  from  our  own  garden,  and  strawberry 
shortcake  with  real " 

"Hush!"  shouted  Sam.  "If  I  ain't  there, 
you'll  know  that  I  passed  away  during  the  night, 
and  you  can  telephone  the  clerk  to  break  in  my 
door." 

The  Grim  Reaper  spared  him,  and  Sam 
came,  and  was  introduced  to  the  family,  and  ate. 
He  put  himself  in  a  class  with  Dr.  Johnson,  and 
Ben  Brust,  and  Gargantua,  only  that  his  table 
manners  were  better.  He  almost  forgot  to  talk 
during  the  soup,  and  he  came  back  three  times 
for  chicken,  and  by  the  time  the  strawberry 
shortcake  was  half  consumed  he  was  looking  at 
Pearlie  with  a  sort  of  awe  in  his  eyes. 

That  night  he  came  over  to  say  good-bye  be 
fore  taking  his  train  out  for  Ishpeming.  He 
and  Pearlie  strolled  down  as  far  as  the  park  and 
back  again. 


THE  HOMELY  HEROINE 

"I  didn't  eat  any  supper,"  said  Sam.  "It 
would  have  been  sacrilege,  after  that  dinner  of 
yours.  Honestly,  I  don't  know  how  to  thank 
you,  being  so  good  to  a  stranger  like  me.  When 
I  come  back  next  trip,  I  expect  to  have  the  Kid 
with  me,  and  I  want  her  to  meet  you,  by  George ! 
She's  a  winner  and  a  pippin,  but  she  wouldn't 
know  whether  a  porterhouse  was  stewed  or 
frapped.  I'll  tell  her  about  you,  you  bet.  In 
the  meantime,  if  there's  anything  I  can  do  for 
you,  I'm  yours  to  command." 

Pearlie  turned  to  him  suddenly.  "You  see 
that  clump  of  thick  shadows  ahead  of  us,  where 
those  big  trees  stand  in  front  of  our  house?" 

"Sure,"  replied  Sam. 

"Well,  when  we  step  into  that  deepest,  black 
est  shadow,  right  in  front  of  our  porch,  I  want 
you  to  reach  up,  and  put  your  arm  around  me 
and  kiss  me  on  the  mouth,  just  once.  And  when 
you  get  back  to  New  York  you  can  tell  your  girl 
I  asked  you  to." 

There  broke  from  him  a  little  involuntary  ex 
clamation.  It  might  have  been  of  pity,  and  it 
might  have  been  of  surprise.  It  had  in  it  some 
thing  of  both,  but  nothing  of  mirth.  And  as 
they  stepped  into  the  depths  of  the  soft  black 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

shadows  he  took  off  his  smart  straw  sailor,  which 
was  so  different  from  the  sailors  that  the  boys  in 
our  town  wear.  And  there  was  in  the  gesture 
something  of  reverence. 

Millie  Whitcomb  didn't  like  the  story  of 
the  homely  heroine,  after  all.  She  says  that  a 
steady  diet  of  such  literary  fare  would  give  her 
blue  indigestion.  Also  she  objects  on  the  ground 
that  no  one  got  married — that  is,  the  heroine 
didn't.  And  she  says  that  a  heroine  who  does 
not  get  married  isn't  a  heroine  at  all.  She 
thinks  she  prefers  the  pink-cheeked,  goddess 
kind,  in  the  end. 
, 


[192] 


XI 
SUN  DRIED 

HpHERE  come  those  times  in  the  life  of  every 
A  jwoman  when  she  feels  that  she  must  wash 
her  hair  at  once.  And  then  she  does  it.2( 
feeling  may  come  upon  her  suddenly,  wj*fiout 
warning,  at  any  hour  of  the  day  or  nigkt ;  or  its 
approach  may  be  slow  and  insidious/so  that  the 
victim  does  not  at  first  realize  what  it  is  that  fills 
her  with  that  sensation  of  unrest.  But  once  in 
the  clutches  of  the  idea  shrlcnows  no  happiness, 
no  peace,  until  she  h^aonned  a  kimono,  gath 
ered  up  two  bath  *6wels,  a  spray,  and  the  green 
soap,  and  she/breathes  again  only  when,  head 
dripping,  sjie  makes  for  the  back  yard,  the  sit- 
ting-roojai  radiator,  or  the  side  porch  (depend 
ing  on  her  place  of  residence,  and  the  time  of 

MVlary  Louise  was  seized  with__the  _feeling^  at 
ten  o'clock  on  a  joyous  June  morning.  Shp  tried 
to  fight  it  off  because  sh£jhad_golJo.jJia±.  stage 
in  the  construction  of  her  story  where  her  hero 
was  beginning  to  talk  and  act  a  little  more  like  a 

[193] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

real  live  man^and  a  little  less/like  a  clothing 
store  dummy.  (By  the  way,  tlftey  don't  seem  to 
be  using  those  pink-and-white/black-mustachioed 
figures  any  more.  Another/good  simile  gone.) 

Mary  Louise  had  been  battling  with  that  hero 
fora  week.  He  wouldnYmake  Svc  m  1  hero 
ine.  In  vain  had  Ma/y  Louise  striven  to  in 
still  red  blood  into  lire  watery  veins.  He  and 
the  beauteous  heroitfe  were  as  far  apart  as  they 
had  been  on  Page/One  of  the  typewritten  manu 
script.  Mary  I^ouise  was  developing  nerves 
over  him.  Sh/had  bitten  her  finger  nails,  and 
twisted  her  hair  into  corkscrews  over  him.  She 
had  risen  e/ery  morning  at  the  chaste  hour  of 
seven,  breakfasted  hurriedly,  tidied  the  tiny  two- 
room  apartment,  and  sat  down  in  the  unroman- 
tic  mormng  light  to  wrestle  with  her  stick  of  a 
hero.  /She  had  made  her  heroine  a  creature  of 
grace/  wit,  and  loveliness,  but  thus  far  the  hero 
had  /not  once  clasped  her  to  him  fiercely,  or 
pressed  his  lips  to  her  hair,  her  eyes,  her 

icks.  Nay  (as  the  story-writers  would  put 
he  hadn't  even  devoured  her  with  his 
taze. 

This  morning,  however,  he  had  begun  to  show 
some  signs  of  Ijfe^  __  He  was  rJevplnpipg 


[194] 


SUN  DRIED 

/)       /L*  *4 

bilitics.    Whereu^oru.at_thls  critical  stage  in  the, 
story-writing    game,    the    hair-washing    mania 
seized  Mary  Louise._^Ske  tried  lu  dismiss  tfee^ 
-kiea.     She   pushed   it   out    of   her   min#  and 
slammed  the  door.     It  only  popped/in  again. 
Her  fingers  wandered  to  her  han*     Her  eyes 
wandered  to  the  June  sunshine/outside.     The 
hero  was  left  poised,  arms  outstretched,  and  un 
quenchable  love-light  burning  in  his  eyes,  while 
Mary  Louise  mused,  th 

"It  certainly  feels  stjy.  It's  been  six  weeks, 
at  least.  And  I  coulcf  sit  here — by  the  window 
— in  the  sun — and/dry  it " 

With  a  jerk  sKe  brought  her  straying  fingers 
away  from  he/  hair,  and  her  wandering  eyes 
away  from  ^ne  sunshine,  and  her  runaway 
thoughts  ba^k  to  the  typewritten  page.  For 
three  minutes  the  snap  of  the  little  disks  crackled 
through  the  stillness  of  the  tiny  apartment. 
Then,  /suddenly,  as  though  succumbing  to  an  ir 
resistible  force,  Mary  Louise  rose,  walked 
across  the  room  (a  matter  of  six  steps),  remov 
ing  hairpins  as  she  went,  and  shoved  aside  the 
/Screen  which  hid  the  stationary  wash-bowl  by 
/  day. 

Mary  Louise  turned  on  a  faucet  and  held  her 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

fiitger  under  it,  while  an  agonized  expression 
of  douBt^sind  suspense  overspread  her  features. 
Slowly  the  lool^ei^suspense  gave  way  to  a  smile 
of  beatific  content.  A"Srgh— deep,  soul-filling, 
satisfied — welled  up  from  Mary^Quise's  breast. 
The  water  was  hot. 

\f  Half  an  hounrjaterjJiga^Lswathed  turban  .fashs, 
ion  in  a  towel,  Mary  Louise  stroljedjjver  to  the 
window,  y  Then  she  stopped,  aghast.  /Jn  that 
half  hour  the  sun  had  slipped  jusKaround  the 
corner,  and  was  now  beating  hrfghtly  and  use 
lessly  against  the  brick  walLafew  inches  away. 
Slowly  Mary  Louise  unwound  the  towel,  bent 
double  in  the  contortipdistic  attitude  that  women 
assume  on  such  occasions,  and  watched  with 
melancholy  eyes  while  the  drops  trickled  down 
to  the  ends  of  her  hair,  and  fell,  unsunned,  to 
the  ft6or. 

"If  only,"  thought  Mary  Louise,  bitterly, 
"there  was  sucE  a  thing  as  a"  bacETyard  irftEis 
city — a  back  yard  where  I  could  squat  on  tne 
grass,  in  the  sunshine  and  the  breeze —  MaySe 
tEcre  is.  I'll  ask  the  janitor." 

§he  bound  her  hair  in  the  turban  again,  and 
o]x^l£d^  the  door.  At  the  far  end  of  iie  long, 
dim  hallway  Charlie,  the  janitor,  was  doing 


SUN  DRIED 

something  to  the  floor  ,with  a  mop  and  a  great 
deal  of  sloppy  water,  ^histling  the  while  with 
a  shrill  abandon  that/nad  announced  his  presence 
to  Mary  Louise. 

"Oh,  Charlie-!1'  called  Mary  Louise.    "Char- 
lee!     Can  vdu  come  here  just  a  minute  ?" 

"You/bet!"  answered  Charlie,  with  the  accent 
on  fat  you;  and  came. 

X     'Charlie,  isj:herc  a  back  vardr  or  something, 
where  the  sun  is,  you  know—  some  nice,  grassy 
sit,  and  dry  my  hair,  and  let 


the  breezes  blow  it?*y 

-q&ftdr-7*TT^^  Charlie.  "I-gasss 

yem-^e-^icw  to  N^  York,  all  right,  with  grnrmd 
cQGtin'  a  million  or  so  a^  foe^J^Not  jmtch_tEey 
ain't  no  back  yard,  unless  you  'a  give  that  name 
to  an  ash-barrcJL-and  a  dump  heap  or  so,  and  a 
crop  of  tin  cans.  I  wouldn't  invite  a  goat  to  set 
in  it." 

Disappointment  curved  Mary  Louise's  mouth. 
It  was  a  lovely  enough  mouth  at  any  time,  but 
when  it  curved  in  disappointment  —  well,  jani 
tors  are  but  human,  after  all. 

"Tell  you  what,  though,"  said  Charlie.  _^!I!11 
Ipt-jTfvp  np  nn  fhp  mnf  _J>  ain't  long  on  grassy 
spots  up  there,  but  say,  breeze  !  Like  a  summer 

[197] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

resort.  On  a  clear  day  you  can  see  way  over  's 
far  's  Eight'  Avenoo.  xQnly  for  the  love  of 
Mike  don't  blab  It  to  the  other  women  folks 
inthe  buildin'^or^l  have  the  whole  works  of 
*cfti""usin7  the  roof  for\a  general  sun,  massage, 
an1  beauty  parlor.  Common." 
X  |T11  never  breathe  it  to  a  soul,"  jiromiscd 
Mar^Louise,  solemnly.  __  "Oh,  wait  a  minute." 

JShe  tujmcd._back  into  her  room,  appearing 
again  in  a  moment  with  something  greenjnher 
hgjiH 

"What's  that?"  asked^  Charliey  suspiciously. 

Mary  Louise,  speedingjdewn  the  narrow  hall 
way  after  Chadier  flushed  a  little.  "It—  it_'s_ 
parsley,"  she  falfered^ 

"^Parsley!"  exploded  jCharlic.     "Well,  what 
the    '  ^  » 

*  Well,  you  se^^^  f  roni_the  country,  '  ?  ex- 
plained  MaryTIouise,  uand  in  the^country,  at 
this  tirnc^of  year,  whenryou  dry  ypgr^Lair^jn  the 
back  yard,  you_gctjb^_inpst  wonderful^cent  of 
green  and  growjngjjbiags  —  not  only  of  flowers, 
but  oFthe  new 


up  in  the  vegetable  garden, 
this._garsle^_haj)pens  to  be  ^ 
deny  thing  I  have,  so  ^thought  I'd  bring  it 

[1983 


SUN  DRIED 

along  and  sniff  it  once  in  a  while,  and  make  be 
lieve  it's  the  country,  up  there  on  the  roof." 

l^alf-way  up  the  perilous  little  flight  of  stairs 
that  lai- to  the  roof,  Charlie,  the  janitor,  turned 
to  gaze  cl^vn  at  Mary  Louise,  who  was  just  be 
hind,  and  Taping  fearfully  out  of  the  way  of 
Charlie's  heeSk 

"Wimmin,"  observed  Charlie,  the  janitor,  "is 
nothin'  but  little  girls  in  long  skirts,  and  their 
hair  done  up."  \ 

"I  know  it,"  giggled  Mary  Louise,  and 
sprang  up  on  the  roof,  \pking,  with  her  towel- 
swathed  head,  like  a  lady  \Maddin  leaping  from 
her  underground  grotto.  \ 

The  two  stood  there  a  momfent,  looking  up  at 
the  blue  sky,  and  all  about  at  thV  June  sunshine. 

"If  you  go  up  high  enough,"  observed  Mary 
Louise,  "the  sunshine  is  almost  the  same  as  it  is 
in  the  country,  isn't  it?"  \ 

"I  shouldn't  wonder,"  said  Charlie,  \though 
Calvary  cemetery  is  about  as  near's  I'll  eVr  get 
to  the  country.  Say,  you  can  set  here  orchis 
soap  box  and  let  your  feet  hang  down.  TWie 
last  janitor's  wife  used  to  hang  her  washin'  u» 
here,  I  guess.  I'll  leave  this  door  open,  see?'\ 
kind,"  smiled  Mary  Louise.  \ 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 


"Ktrr^Qiiblarne  me?"  retorted  the  gallant 
Charles.  AnovlTTmJaed.  ^ 

Mary  Louise,  perched  on  the  soap  boxr^un- 
wound  her  turban,  draped  the  damp  towel  over 
herjjioulders,  and  shook  out  the  wet/masses  of 
her  hair^  NJpw  the  average  girl  'shaking  out 
the  wet  massestof  her  hair  looks/ike  a  drowned 
rat.  But  NatureNjad  been  kind  to  Mary  Louise. 
She  had  given  her  h^ir  that  curled  in  little  ring 
lets  when  wet,  and  trW  waved  in  all  the  right 
places  when  dry.  JustSK>w  it  hung  in  damp, 
shining  strands  on  either  sick  of  her  face,  so  that 
she  looked  most  remarkably  ^ke  one  of  those 
oval-faced,  great-eyed,  red-lipped  women  that 
the  old  Italian  .artists  were  so  fonosof  painting. 

Below  her,  blazing  in  the  sun,  lay^the  great 
stone  and  iron  city.J^Mafy  Louise  shook  out 
her  hair  idly,  with  one  hand,  smiled  her  parsley, 
shut  her  eyes,  threw  back  her  head,  and  began 
to_j>ing,  beating  time  with  her  heel  against  the 

ip  box,'  aird 


soap  boxT  aird^forgetting  all  about  the  letter  that 
had  come  that  ri^prning,  stating  that  it  was  not 
from  any  lack  oKmerit,  etc.  She  sang,  and 
miffed  her  parsley,  aVi  waggled  her  hair  in  the 
breeze,  and  beat  time,  r^ly,  with  the  heel  of  her 
little  bootywhen— — 

[200] 


SUN  DRIED 

"Holy  CatS.1"  exclaimed  a  man's  voice. 
'  {  What  is  this,  anyway  ?_  A  Coney  Island  con 
cession  gone  wrong?" 

Mary  Louise's  eyes  unclosed  in  a  flash,  and 
Mary  Louise  gazed  upon  an  irate-looking, 
youngish  man^  who  wore  shabby  slippersr  and 
no  collar  "with  a  full  jiress  alx. 

UI  presume  that  you  are  the  janitor's  beauti- 
ful__daughtcrA"  growled  the  colorless  man. 

"Well,  not  precisely,"  answered  Mary  Louise, 

SWeetlj.,  "  '  'A££    you     the    scry  fr-1  r^y1*;    «sf  a  Carl 

son?" 

"Ha  !"_  exploded  the_jnan.  "But  then,  all 
women  look  alike  with  their  hair  down.  I  ask 


"Not  at  all"  replied  Mary  Louise^  "JFor 
that  matter,  all  men  look  like  picked  chickens 
withjheir  collars  off." 

that  the  collarless  man,  who  until  now  had 
been  sending  on  the  top  step  that  led  up  to  the 
roof,  cambs^slowly  forward,  stepped  languidly 
over  a  skyligmsor  two,  draped  his  handkerchief 
over  a  convenienr>slmnney  and  sat  down,  hug 
ging  his  long,  lean 

^(Nice  up  here,  isn't  it?"  he  remarked. 
"It  was,"  said  Mary  Louise^ 
[201] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

"Hs["  exploded  he,  again.  Then,  "Where's 
your  rnim^r?"  he  demanded. 

"Mirror  ?\jchoed  Mary  Louise. 

"Certainly.  r«qu  have  the  hair,  the  comb,  the 
attitude,  and  the  general  Lorelei  effect.  Also 
your  singing  lured  rn^to  your  shores." 

"You    didn't    look    luSd,"    retorted    Mary 
Louise.    "You  looked  lurid/\ 
^'What's  that  stuff  in  your  hand?"  next  de 
manded  he.     He  really  was  a  most  astonish 
ingly  rude  young  man. 

"Parsley/' 

"Parsley!"  shouted  he,  much  as  Charlie  had 
clone.  "Well,  what  the  -  " 

"Back  home,"  elucidated  Mary  Louisej)nce 
more,  patiently,  "after  you've  washed  your  hair 
you  dry  it  in  the  back  yard,  sitting  on  the  grass, 
inthe  sunshine  and  the  breeze.  And  the  garden 
smells  come  to  you  —  thj^ni^prhnrny-ajiri  the 
pansies,  and  the  geraniums,  you  know,  and  even 
that  clean  grass  smell,  md^heLJ™^^ 


table  odor,  and L  there  are  ants,  and  bees,  and 

butterflies "  v 

Go, on,"  urged  the  young  man,  eagerly. 
"And  Mi^rNe^rt  Door  comes  out  to  hang  up 

•a  couple 


[202] 


SUN  DRIED 


out  to  you  : 


"  Tes/  you  say.>^jt^was  something 
anjdjjvi^  -flight*  —  ^^  ^ 

suppose  I  won't  he.  able  to  d(~>  a  thing  wifh^/  J^ 

"And  then  Mrs.  Next  Door  stands  thepgji 
minute  on  the  clothes-reel  platform,  w<m  the 
wind  whipping  her  skirts  about  \^\  and  the 
fresh  smell  of  the  growing  thingsXoming  to  her. 
And  suddenly  she  says  :  (I  gi^ss  I'll  wash  mine 
while  the  baby^s  asjeep/  V 

youafgrnan  r^ses£rom  his  chim- 


hcrc?nhe  asked,  in  his  impolite  way. 
'  '  If  I  did  not,   do     ou  think  that  I  would 


choose  this  as  the  one  spot  iiua.ll  New  Yor^  ^n 
which  to  dry  my 


"When  T  said,  'Live  here,  I  didn't  mean  just 
that._  I  meant  who  are  you,  and  wby  are  YQ11 
%£1>  and  where  do  you  come  frpm^afld  do  you 
sjgnj^our  real  name  to  your  stuffT  or  use  a  nom 
deplume?"  )(  " 

"Why  —  how  did  you  know?"  gasped  Mary 
Louise. 

—  .m«i  '    m 

[203] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

"Give  me  five  minutes  more,"  grinned  the 
keen-eyed  young  man,  "and  I'll  tell  you  what, 
maEc^ur  typewriter  Is.  an<j  wh^rp  ^  1a«f  re 
jection  slip^amc  from." 

"Oh!"  said  Marv  Louise  again.  "Then. you 
fire  the  scrub-lady's  stalwart  son,  and  you've 
been  ransacking  my  waste-basket."  y 

Qmtc-rmhrcdingrt^^ 

V'And  so  you  thought  you  could  write,  and  you 
came  on  to  New  York  (you  know  one  doesi 
just  travel  to  New  York,  or  ride  to  it,  or  cdme 
to  it;  one  'comes  on'  to  New  York),  and'now 
you're  not  so  sure  about  the  writing,  h'irj/  And 
back  home  what  did  you  do?" 

"Back  home  I  taught  school— r^nd  hated  it.. 
But  I  kept  on  teaching  until  WT saved  five  hun 
dred  dollars.  Every  othej^chool  ma'am  in  the 
world  teaches  until  sh^nas  saved  five  hundred 
dollars,  and  then  sjre  packs  two  suit-cases,  and 
goes  to  Europe  iyfm  June  until  September.  JJut 
I  saved  my  five  hundred  for  New  Yorfo>ffive 
beenhcre  six  months  now,  aindyth^five  hundged- 
haV  shrunk  to  almost  nothing)  and  if  I  don't 
break  into  the  magazines  pretty  soon— " 

"Then?" 

"Then,"  said  Mary  Louise^jwith  a  quavesin 
~ 


SUN  DRIED 

,  "I'll  have  to  go  back  and  teach  thirty- 
seven  young  devils  that  six  times  five  is  thirty , 
put  down  theNiaught  and  carry  sbj(  artd^that  the 
French  are  a  ga^flfiople,  fond  of  dancing  and 
light  wines:J  ButTll  sfcrijpj^n  everything  from 
hairpins   to   shoesr  and  b 
pretty  collars,  and  gloves,  aiid  hat 
sav>e<i  up  aaothag Ji  ve  hundred,  and  then  I'll  try 
it  all  over  again,  because  I — can — write. "          \f 

From  the  depths  of  one  capacious  pocket  the  * 
inquiring  man  took  a  small  black  gip^i  from  an 
other  a  bag  of  tobacco,  from  afiother  a  match. 
The  long,  deft  fingers  made  a  brief  task  of  it. 

"I  didn't  ask  you^'  he  said,  after  the  first  puff, 
"because  I  could  see  that  you  weren't  the  fool 
kind  that  objects."  Then,  with  amazing  sud 
denness,  " Know  any  of  the  editors  ?" 

*Know  them!"  cried  Mary  Louise.  uKnow 
them !  ^^amging  on  their  doorsteps,  and 
haunting  the  omcexbuildings,  and  cajoling,  and 
fighting  with  secretarie^an4o  office  boys,  and  as 
sistants  and  things  constitutes  knowing  them, 
then  we're  chums."  ^^^^ 

What   makes  you   think   you   can  write?" 
sneered  the  thin  man . 

Mary   Louise  gathered  up   her  brush,   and 
[205] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

comb,  and  towel,  and  parsley,  and  jumped 
off  the  soap  box.  She  pointed  belligerently 
at  her  tormentor  with  the  hand  that  held  the 
brush. 

"  Being  the  scrub-lady's  stalwart  son,  ^EQU 
wouldn't  understand.  But  I  can  write.  I  sha'n't 
go  under.  Tm  going  to  make  this  town  count 
me  in  as  the  four  million  and  oneth.  Sometimes 
I  get  so  tired  of  being  nobody  at  alI,Awith  not 
even  enough  cleverness  in  me  to  wrest>ar^iving 
from  this  big  city,  that  I  long  to^stalffd  out  at  the 
edge  of  the  curbing,  and  .ta£e  off  my  hat,  and 
wave  it,  and  shoutr^Say,  you  four  million  uncar 
ing  peoplfrsTm  Mary  Louise  Moss3  frorr^Esca- 
Michi^ru  anclJL  like^your 


want  to  stay  herSi   Won't  ^Q>IL  please  pay  some.. 
slight  attention  to  rrhO^No  one  knows  I'm  here 
jsxcept  myself,  arKPthe  rent  collectgr/  ' 

"And  I,1>  put  in  the  rudej^oung  man. 

"O,  you,"  sneered  Mary  Louise,  equally,rU-d£» 
uyou  don't  .count.17" 

Thcj:ollarless  young  man  in  the  shabby  slip 
pers  smileda^ctrrious  little  twisted  smile.J^'You^ 
never  can  tell,"  he  grinned,  "I  mi^htj'     Then, 
quite  suddenly,  he  stood  up,  knocked  the  ash  out 
of  his  pipe,  and  came  over  to  Mary  Louise,  who 

[206] 


SUN  DRIED 

was  preparing  to  descend  the  steep  little  flight  of 
stairs. 

"Look  here,  Nfoy-Louise  Moss.  -&onr~Esca- 
ftakaT-Mkklgafl,  you  stop  trying  to  write  the  slop 
you're  writing-  now.X  Stop  it.  Drop/the  love 
tales  that  are  like  the  stuff  thajt-everybody  else 
writes.  Stop  trying  towrife  about  New  York. 
You  don't  know  -anything  about  it.  Listen. 
You  get  back  to  work,  and  write  about  <Mrs. 
'Nrrt'Poor,  aitd  the  hair-washing,  and  the  vege 
table  garden,  ^nc\  Ws  nnH  the  Jiack  yard^  un 
derstand  ?  You  write  the  way  jvou  talked  to 
rne,  and  then  ynn  gpn^  ypnr  stuff  In  to  Cecil 


"ReevesJ"  mockec^  Mary  Louise.  "Cecil 
Reeves,  of  The  Earth?  He  wouldn't  dream  of 
looking  at  my  stuff.  And  anyway,  it  really  isn't 
yoiirjyfair."  And  began  to  descend  the  stains. 

"Well,  you  know  you  brought  me  upjiere, 
kicking  with  your  heels,  and  singinjpaf'the  top 
of  your  voice.  I  couldn't  workx^o  it's  really 
your  fault."  Then,  just  as  Mary  Louise  had  al 
most  disappeared  down  jire  stairway  he  put  his 
last  astonishing  question. 

"How  often  do  you  wash  your  hair?"  he  de 
manded^ 

[207] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

"Well,  back  home,"  confessed  Mary  Louise, 
4 'every  six  weeks  or  so  was  enough,  but^'  " 

"Not  here,"   put   in   the   rude  .young  man, 
briskly.     "Never.    That^H^er^^ 
country,  but  it  won't  do  in  the  city.     Once  a 
week,  at  least,  and  on  the  roof.     Cleanliness  de 
mands  it." 

"But  if  Fm  going  back  to  the  country,"  re 
plied  Mary  Louise,  "it  won't  be  necessary." 

"But  you're  not,"  calmly  said  the  collarless 
young  than,  just  as  Mary  Louise  vanished  from 
sigm. 

X  Down  at  the  other  end  of  the  hallway  on 
Mary  Louise's  floor  Charlie^jhc  janitor^  was  do 
ing  something  to  the  windows  now^with^a  rag, 
and  a  pail  of  water.  / 

"Get  it  dry?"  he  called  out,  sockbly. 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  answered  Mary  Louise, 
and  turned  to  enter  her  own  little  apartment. 
Then,  hesitatingly,  she  came  back  to  Charlie's 
window. 

\y  "There — there  was  a  man  up  there— a  very 
tall,  very  thin,  very  rude,  very— that  is,  rather 
nice  youngish  oldish  man,  in  slippers,  anjLno 
collar  I  wonder " 

"Oh,  him!"   siiortcd   Charlie.     "He   don't 
[208] 


SUN  DRIED 

show  himself  onct  in  a  blue  moon.  None  of  the 
other  tenants  knows  he's  up  there.  Has  the 
whole  top  floor  to  himself,  and  shuts  Tiimself  up 
at  a  tmritin*  books,  or 


frnrlc.      Thflt  gny,   he  owns  the  build- 


"Owns   the   building!"    said    Mary   Louise, 
faintly.    "Whv  he  looked—  he  looked-  -  " 
grinned     Charlie.       "That's 


Name's  Reeves—  Cecil  Reeves.     Say,  ain^t 
fljjjjyil  ftf  a  i  nanvr?" 


[209] 


J 


XII 
WHERE  THE  CAR  TURNS  AT  18TH 


will  be  a  homing  pigeon  story.  Though 
I  send  it  ever  so  far  —  though  its  destina 
tion  be  the  office  of  a  home-and-fireju  > 
magazine  or  one  of  the  kind  with  a  French 
story  in  the  back,  it  will  return  to  me. 
After  each  flight  its  feathers  will  be  a  little 
more  rumpled,  its  wings  more  weary,  its 
course  more  wavering,  until,  battered,  spent, 
broken,  it  will  flutter  to  rest  in  the  waste 
basket. 

And  yet,  though  its  message  may  never  be  de 
livered,  it  must  be  sent,  because  —  well,  be 
cause  - 

You  know  where  the  car  turns  at  Eighteenth? 
There  you  see  a  glaringly  attractive  billboard 
poster.  It  depicts  groups  of  smiling,  white-clad 
men  standing  on  tropical  shores,  with  waving 
palms  overhead,  and  a  glimpse  of  blue  sea  in  the 
distance.  The  wording  beneath  the  picture  runs 
something  like  this: 

"Young  men  wanted.  An  unusual  oppor- 
[210] 


WHERE  THE  CAR  TURNS  AT  18TH 

tunity  for  travel,  education,  and  advancement. 
Good  pay.     No  expenses." 

When  the  car  turns  at  Eighteenth,  and  I  see 
that,  I  remember  Eddie  Houghton  back  home. 
And  when  I  remember  Eddie  Houghton  I  see 
red. 

^The  day  after  Eddie  Houghton  finished  high 
scnool  he  went  to  work.  In  our  town  we  don't 
take  a  job.  We  accept  a  position.  Our  paper 
had  it  that  "Edwin  Houghton  had  accepted  a 
position  as  clerk  and  assistant  chemist  at  the 
Kunz  drug  store,  where  he  would  take  up  his 
new  duties  Monday." 

His  new  duties  seemed,  at  first,  to  consist  of 
opening  the  store  in  the  morning,  sweeping  out, 
and  whizzing  about  town  on  a  bicycle  with  an 
unnecessarily  insistent  bell,  delivering  prescrip 
tions  which  had  been  telephoned  for.  But  by 
the  time  the  summer  had  really  set  in  Eddie  was 
installed  back  of  the  soda  fountain. 

There  never  was  anything  better  looking  than 
Eddie  Houghton  in  his  white  duck  coat.  He  was 
one  of  those  misleadingly  gold  and  pink  and 
white  men.  I  say  misleadingly  because  you  usu 
ally  associate  pink-and-whiteness  with  such  words 
as  sissy  and  mollycoddle.  Eddie  was  neither. 

[211] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

He  had  played  quarter-back  every  year  from  his 
freshman  year,  and  he  could  putt  the  shot  and 
cut  classes  with  the  best  of  'em.  But  in  that 
white  duck  coat  with  the  braiding  and  frogs  he 
had  any  musical-comedy,  white-flannel  tenor  lieu 
tenant  whose  duty  it  is  to  march  down  to  the 
edge  of  the  footlights,  snatch  out  his  sword,  and 
warble  about  his  country's  flag,  looking  like  a 
flat-nosed,  blue-gummed  Igorrote.  Kunz's  soda 
water  receipts  swelled  to  double  their  usual  size, 
and  the  girls'  complexions  were  something  awful 
that  summer.  I've  known  Nellie  Donovan  to 
take  as  many  as  three  ice  cream  sodas  and  two 
phosphates  a  day  when  Eddie  was  mixing.  He 
had  a  way  of  throwing  in  a  good-natured  smile, 
and  an  easy  flow  of  conversation  with  every 
drink.  While  indulging  in  a  little  airy  persiflage 
the  girls  had  a  great  little  trick  of  pursing  their 
mouths  into  rosebud  shapes  over  their  soda 
straws,  and  casting  their  eyes  upward  at  Eddie. 
They  all  knew  the  trick,  and  its  value,  so  that 
at  night  Eddie's  dreams  were  haunted  by  whole 
rows  of  rosily  pursed  lips,  and  seas  of  upturned, 
adoring  eyes.  Of  course  we  all  noticed  that  on 
those  rare  occasions  when  Josie  Morehouse  came 
into  Kunz's  her  glass  was  heaped  higher  with 
[212] 


WHERE  THE  CAR  TURNS  AT  18TH 

ice  cream  than  that  of  any  of  the  other  girls,  and 
that  Eddie's  usually  easy  flow  of  talk  was  inter 
spersed  with  certain  stammerings  and  stutter- 
ings.  But  Josie  didn't  come  in  often.  She  had 
a  lot  of  dignity  for  a  girl  of  eighteen.  Besides, 
she  was  taking  the  teachers'  examinations  that 
summer,  when  the  other  girls  were  playing  ten 
nis  and  drinking  sodas. 

Eddie  really  hated  the  soda  water  end  of  the 
business,  as  every  soda  clerk  in  the  world  does. 
But  he  went  about  it  good-naturedly.  He  really 
wanted  to  learn  the  drug  business,  but  the  boss 
knew  he  had  a  drawing  card,  and  insisted  that 
Eddie  go  right  on  concocting  faerie  queens  and 
strawberry  sundaes,  and  nectars  and  Kunz's  spe 
cials.  One  Saturday,  when  he  happened  to  have 
on  hand  an  over-supply  of  bananas  that  would 
have  spoiled  over  Sunday,  he  invented  a  mess 
and  called  it  the  Eddie  Extra,  and  the  girls 
swarmed  on  it  like  flies  around  a  honey  pot. 

That  kind  of  thing  would  have  spoiled  most 
boys.  But  Eddie  had  a  sensible  mother.  On 
those  nights  when  he  used  to  come  home  nause 
ated  with  dealing  out  chop  suey  sundaes  and 
orangeades,  and  saying  that  there  was  no  future 
for  a  fellow  in  our  dead  little  hole,  his  mother 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

would  give  him  something  rather  special  for 
supper,  and  set  him  hoeing  and  watering  the 
garden. 

So  Eddie  stuck  to  his  job,  and  waited,  and 
all  the  time  he  was  saying,  with  a  melting  look, 
to  the  last  silly  little  girl  who  was  drinking  her 
third  soda,  "Somebody  looks  mighty  sweet  in 
pink  to-day,"  or  while  he  was  doping  to-mor 
row's  ball  game  with  one  of  the  boys  who 
dropped  in  for  a  cigar,  he  was  thinking  of  big 
ger  things,  and  longing  for  a  man-size  job. 

The  man-size  job  loomed  up  before  Eddie's 
dazzled  eyes  when  he  least  expected  it.  It  was 
at  the  close  of  a  particularly  hot  day  when  it 
seemed  to  Eddie  that  every  one  in  town  had  had 
everything  from  birch  beer  to  peach  ice  cream. 
On  his  way  home  to  supper  he  stopped  at  the 
postoffice  with  a  handful  of  letters  that  old  man 
Kunz  had  given  him  to  mail.  His  mother  had 
told  him  that  they  would  have  corn  out  of  their 
own  garden  for  supper  that  night,  and  Eddie 
was  in  something  of  a  hurry.  He  and  his  mother 
were  great  pals. 

In  one  corner  of  the  dim  little  postoffice  lobby 
a  man  was  busily  tacking  up  posters.  The  white 
washed  walls  bloomed  with  them.  They  were 


WHERE  THE  CAR  TURNS  AT  18TH 

gay,  attractive-looking  posters,  done  in  red  and 
blue  and  green,  and  after  Eddie  had  dumped  his 
mail  into  the  slot,  and  had  called  out,  "Hello, 
Jake !"  to  the  stamp  clerk,  whose  back  was  turned 
to  the  window,  he  strolled  idly  over  to  where 
the  man  was  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  his 
work.  The  man  was  dressed  in  a  sailor  suit  of 
blue,  with  a  picturesque  silk  scarf  knotted  at  his 
hairy  chest.  He  went  right  on  tacking  posters. 

They  certainly  were  attractive  pictures.  Some 
showed  groups  of  stalwart,  immaculately  clad 
young  gods  lolling  indolently  on  tropical  shores, 
with  a  splendor  of  palms  overhead,  and  a  spark 
ling  blue  sea  in  the  distance.  Others  depicted 
a  group  of  white-clad  men  wading  knee-deep  in 
the  surf  as  they  laughingly  landed  a  cutter  on 
the  sandy  beach.  There  was  a  particularly  fasci 
nating  one  showing  two  barefooted  young  chaps 
on  a  wave-swept  raft  engaged  in  that  delight 
fully  perilous  task  known  as  signaling.  An 
other  showed  the  keen-eyed  gunners  busy  about 
the  big  guns. 

Eddie  studied  them  all. 

The  man  finished  his  task  and  looked  up,  quite 
casually. 

"Hello,  kid/'  he  said. 

[215] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

"Hello,"  answered  Eddie.  Then— "That's 
some  picture  gallery  you're  giving  us." 

The  man  in  the  sailor  suit  fell  back  a  pace  or 
two  and  surveyed  his  work  with  a  critical  but 
satisfied  eye. 

"Pitchers,"  he  said>  "don't  do  it  justice. 
We've  opened  a  recruiting  office  here.  Looking 
for  young  men  with  brains,  and  muscle,  and  am 
bition.  It's  a  great  chance.  We  don't  get  to 
these  here  little  towns  much." 

He  placed  a  handbill  in  Eddie's  hand.  Eddie 
glanced  down  at  it  sheepishly. 

"I've  heard,"  he  said,  "that  it's  a  hard  life." 

The  man  in  the  sailor  suit  threw  back  his  head 
and  laughed,  displaying  a  great  deal  of  hairy 
throat  and  chest.  "Hard!"  he  jeered,  and 
slapped  one  of  the  gay-colored  posters  with  the 
back  of  his  hand.  "You  see  that !  Well,  it  ain't 
a  bit  exaggerated.  Not  a  bit.  I  ought  to  know. 
It's  the  only  life  for  a  young  man,  especially  for 
a  guy  in  a  little  town.  There's  no  chance  here 
for  a  bright  young  man,  and  if  he  goes  to  the 
city,  what  does  he  get?  The  city's  jam  full  of 
kids  that  flock  there  in  the  spring  and  fall,  look 
ing  for  jobs,  and  thinking  the  city's  sittin'  up 
waitin'  for  'em.  And  where  do  they  land?  In 


WHERE  THE  CAR  TURNS  AT  18TH 

the  dime  lodging  houses,  that's  where.  In  the 
navy  you  see  the  world,  and  it  don't  cost  you 
a  cent.  A  guy  is  a  fool  to  bury  himself  alive 
in  a  hole  like  this.  You  could  be  seeing  the 
world,  traveling  by  sea  from  port  to  port,  from 
country  to  country,  from  ocean  to  ocean,  amid 
ever-changing  scenery  and  climatic  conditions, 
to  see  and  study  the  habits  and  conditions  of  the 
strange  races " 

It  rolled  off  his  tongue  with  fascinating  glib- 
ness.  Eddie  glanced  at  the  folder  in  his 
hand. 

"I  always  did  like  the  water,"  he  said. 

"Sure,"  agreed  the  hairy  man,  heartily. 
"What  young  feller  don't?  I'll  tell  you  what. 
Come  on  over  to  the  office  with  me  and  I'll  show 
you  some  real  stuff." 

"It's  my  supper  time,"  hesitated  Eddie.  "I 
guess  I'd  better  not " 

"Oh,  supper,"  laughed  the  man.  "You  come 
on  and  have  supper  with  me,  kid." 

Eddie's  pink  cheeks  went  three  shades  pinker. 
"Gee!  That'd  be  great.  But  my  mother — 
that  is — she " 

The  man  in  the  sailor  suit  laughed  again-- 
a  laugh  with  a  sting  in  it.     "A  great  big  feller 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

like  you  ain't  tied  to  your  ma's  apron  strings  arc 
you?" 

"Not  much  I'm  not!"  retorted  Eddie.  "I'll 
telephone  her  when  I  get  to  your  hotel,  that's 
what  I'll  do." 

But  they  were  such  fascinating  things,  those 
new  booklets,  and  the  man  had  such  marvelous 
tales  to  tell,  that  Eddie  forgot  trifles  like  supper 
and  waiting  mothers.  There  were  pictures  taken 
on  board  ship,  showing  frolics,  and  ball  games, 
and  minstrel  shows  and  glee  clubs,  and  the  men 
at  mess,  and  each  sailor  sleeping  snug  as  a  bug 
in  his  hammock.  There  were  other  pictures 
showing  foreign  scenes  and  strange  ports.  Ed 
die's  tea  grew  cold,  and  his  apple  pie  and  cheese 
lay  untasted  on  his  plate. 

"Now  me,"  said  the  recruiting  officer,  "I'm  a 
married  man.  But  my  wife,  she  wouldn't  have 
it  no  other  way.  No,  sir !  She'll  be  in  the  navy 
herself,  I'll  bet,  when  women  vote.  Why,  be 
fore  I  joined  the  navy  I  didn't  know  whether 
Guam  was  a  vegetable  or  an  island,  and  Culebra 
wasn't  in  my  geography.  Now  ?  Why,  now  I'm 
as  much  at  home  in  Porto  Rico  as  I  am  in  San 
Francisco.  I'm  as  well  acquainted  in  Valpa 
raiso  as  I  am  in  Vermont,  and  I've  run  around 


WHERE  THE  CAR  TURNS  AT  18TH 

Cairo,  Egypt,  until  I  know  it  better  than  Cairo, 
Illinois.  It's  the  only  way  to  see  the  world. 
You  travel  by  sea  from  port  to  port,  from  coun 
try  to  country,  from  ocean  to  ocean,  amid  ever- 
changing  scenery  and  climatic  conditions,  to  see 
and  study  the " 

And  Eddie  forgot  that  it  was  Wednesday 
night,  which  was  the  prescription  clerk's  night 
off ;  forgot  that  the  boss  was  awaiting  his  return 
that  he  might  go  home  to  his  own  supper;  for 
got  his  mother,  and  her  little  treat  of  green  corn 
out  of  the  garden ;  forgot  everything  in  the  won 
der  of  this  man's  tales  of  people  and  scenes  such 
as  he  never  dreamed  could  exist  outside  of  a 
Jack  London  story.  Now  and  then  Eddie  in 
terrupted  with  a,  "Yes,  but "  that  grew 

more  and  more  infrequent,  until  finally  they 
ceased  altogether.  Eddie's  man-size  job  had 
come. 

When  we  heard  the  news  we  all  dropped  in 
at  the  drug  store  to  joke  with  him  about  it.  We 
had  a  good  deal  to  say  about  rolling  gaits,  and 
bell-shaped  trousers,  and  anchors  and  sea  ser 
pents  tattooed  on  the  arm.  One  of  the  boys 
scored  a  hit  by  slapping  his  dime  down  on  the 
soda  fountain  marble  and  bellowing  for  rum  and 
[219] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

salt  horse.  Some  one  started  to  tease  the  little 
Morehouse  girl  about  sailors  having  sweethearts 
in  every  port,  but  when  they  saw  the  look  in  her 
eyes  they  changed  their  mind,  and  stopped.  It's 
funny  how  a  girl  of  twenty  is  a  woman,  when  a 
man  of  twenty  is  a  boy. 

Eddie  dished  out  the  last  of  his  chocolate  ice 
cream  sodas  and  cherry  phosphates  and  root 
beers,  while  the  girls  laughingly  begged  him  to 
bring  them  back  kimonos  from  China,  and 
scarves  from  the  Orient,  and  Eddie  promised, 
laughing,  too,  but  with  a  far-off,  eager  look  in 
his  eyes. 

When  the  time  came  for  him  to  go  there  was 
quite  a  little  bodyguard  of  us  ready  to  escort  him 
down  to  the  depot.  We  picked  up  two  or  three 
more  outside  O'Rourke's  pool  room,  and  a  cou 
ple  more  from  the  benches  outside  the  hotel. 
Eddie  walked  ahead  with  his  mother.  I  have 
said  that  Mrs.  Houghton  was  a  sensible  woman. 
She  was  never  more  so  than  now.  Any  other 
mother  would  have  gone  into  hysterics  and 
begged  the  recruiting  officer  to  let  her  boy  off. 
But  she  knew  better.  Still,  I  think  Eddie  felt 
some  uncomfortable  pangs  when  he  looked  at 
her  set  face.  On  the  way  to  the  depot  we  had 
[220] 


WHERE  THE  CAR  TURNS  AT  18TH 

to  pass  the  Agassiz  School,  where  Josie  More- 
house  was  substituting  second  reader  for  the 
Wilson  girl,  who  was  sick.  She  was  standing  in 
the  window  as  we  passed.  Eddie  took  off  his 
cap  and  waved  to  her,  and  she  returned  the  wave 
as  well  as  she  could  without  having  the  children 
see  her.  That  would  never  have  done,  seeing 
that  she  was  the  teacher,  and  substituting  at 
that.  But  when  we  turned  the  corner  we  noticed 
that  she  was  still  standing  at  the  window  and 
leaning  out  just  a  bit,  even  at  the  risk  of  being 
indiscreet. 

When  the  10:15  pulled  out  Eddie  stood  on 
the  bottom  step,  with  his  cap  off,  looking  I  can't 
tell  you  how  boyish,  and  straight,  and  clean,  and 
handsome,  with  his  lips  parted,  and  his  eyes  very 
bright.  The  hairy-chested  recruiting  officer 
stood  just  beside  him,  and  suffered  by  contrast. 
There  was  a  bedlam  of  good-byes,  and  last 
messages,  and  good-natured  badinage,  but 
Eddie's  mother's  eyes  never  left  his  face  until 
the  train  disappeared  around  the  curve  in  the 
track. 

Well,  they  got  a  new  boy  at  Kunz's — a  sandy- 
haired  youth,  with  pimples,  and  no  knack  at 
mixing,  and  we  got  out  of  the  habit  of  dropping 
[221] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

in  there,  although  those  fall  months  were  un 
usually  warm. 

It  wasn't  long  before  we  began  to  get  post 
cards — pictures  of  the  naval  training  station, 
and  the  gymnasium,  and  of  model  camps  and  of 
drills,  and  of  Eddie  in  his  uniform.  His  mother 
insisted  on  calling  it  his  sailor  suit,  as  though  he 
were  a  little  boy.  One  day  Josie  Morehouse 
came  over  to  Mrs.  Houghton's  with  a  group 
picture  in  her  hand.  She  handed  it  to  Eddie's 
mother  without  comment.  Mrs.  Houghton 
looked  at  it  eagerly,  her  eye  selecting  her  own 
boy  from  the  group  as  unerringly  as  a  mother 
bird  finds  her  nest  in  the  forest. 

"Oh,  Eddie's  better  looking  than  that!"  she 
cried,  with  a  tremulous  little  laugh.  "How 
funny  those  pants  make  them  look,  don't  they? 
And  his  mouth  isn't  that  way,  at  all.  Eddie  al 
ways  had  the  sweetest  mouth,  from  the  time  he 
was  a  baby.  Let's  see  some  of  these  other  boys. 
Why— why " 

Then  she  fell  silent,  scanning  those  other 
faces.  Presently  Josie  bent  over  her  and  looked 
too,  and  the  brows  of  both  women  knitted  in 
perplexity.  They  looked  for  a  long,  long  min 
ute,  and  the  longer  they  looked  the  more  no- 
[222] 


WHERE  THE  CAR  TURNS  AT  18TH 

ticeable  became  the  cluster  of  fine  little  wrinkles 
that  had  begun  to  form  about  Mrs.  Houghton's 
eyes. 

When  finally  they  looked  up  it  was  to  gaze  at 
one  another  questioningly. 

"Those  other  boys,"  faltered  Eddie's  mother, 
"they — they  don't  look  like  Eddie,  do  they?  I 
mean " 

"No,  they  don't,"  agreed  Josie.  "They  look 
older,  and  they  have  such  queer-looking  eyes, 
and  jaws,  and  foreheads.  But  then,"  she  finished, 
with  mock  cheerfulness,  "you  can  never  tell  in 
those  silly  kodak  pictures." 

Eddie's  mother  studied  the  card  again,  and 
sighed  gently.  "I  hope,"  she  said,  "that  Eddie 
won't  get  into  bad  company." 

After  that  our  postal  cards  ceased.  I  wish 
that  there  was  some  way  of  telling  this  story 
so  that  the  end  wouldn't  come  in  the  middle. 
But  there  is  none.  In  our  town  we  know  the 
news  before  the  paper  comes  out,  and  we  only 
read  it  to  verify  what  we  have  heard.  So  that 
long  before  the  paper  came  out  in  the  middle  of 
the  afternoon  we  had  been  horrified  by  the  news 
of  Eddie  Houghton's  desertion  and  suicide.  We 
stopped  one  another  on  Main  Street  to  talk 

[223] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

about  it,  and  recall  how  boyish  and  handsome 
he  had  looked  in  his  white  duck  coat,  and  on  that 
last  day  just  as  the  10:15  pulled  out.  "It  don't 
seem  hardly  possible,  does  it?"  we  demanded  of 
each  other. 

But  when  Eddie's  mother  brought  out  the  let 
ters  that  had  come  after  our  postal  cards  had 
ceased,  we  understood.  And  when  they  brought 
him  home,  and  we  saw  him  for  the  last  time,  all 
those  of  us  who  had  gone  to  school  with  him, 
and  to  dances,  and  sleigh  rides,  and  hayrack  par 
ties,  and  picnics,  and  when  we  saw  the  look  on 
his  face — the  look  of  one  who,  walking  in  a 
sunny  path  has  stumbled  upon  something  hor 
rible  and  unclean — we  forgave  him  his  neglect 
of  us,  we  forgave  him  desertion,  forgave  him  the 
taking  of  his  own  life,  forgave  him  the  look 
that  he  had  brought  into  his  mother's  eyes. 

There  had  never  been  anything  extraordinary 
about  Eddie  Houghton.  He  had  had  his  faults 
and  virtues,  and  good  and  bad  sides  just  like 
other  boys  of  his  age.  He — oh,  I  am  using  too 
many  words,  when  one  slang  phrase  will  express 
it.  Eddie  had  been  just  a  nice  young  kid.  I 
think  the  worst  thing  he  had  ever  said  was 
"Damn!"  perhaps.  If  he  had  sworn,  it  was 
[224] 


WHERE  THE  CAR  TURNS  AT  18TH 

with  clean  oaths,  calculated  to  relieve  the  mind 
and  feelings. 

But  the  men  that  he  shipped  with  during 
that  year  or  more — I  am  sure  that  he  had  never 
dreamed  that  such  men  were.  He  had  never 
stood  on  the  curbing  outside  a  recruiting  office 
on  South  State  Street,  in  the  old  levee  district, 
and  watched  that  tragic  panorama  move  by — 
those  nightmare  faces,  drink-marred,  vice- 
scarred,  ruined.  I  know  that  he  had  never  seen 
such  faces  in  all  his  clean,  hard-working  young 
boy's  life,  spent  in  our  prosperous  little  country 
town.  I  am  certain  that  he  had  never  heard  such 
words  as  came  from  the  lips  of  his  fellow  sea 
men — great  mouth-filling,  soul-searing  words — 
words  unclean,  nauseating,  unspeakable,  and  yet 
spoken. 

I  don't  say  that  Eddie  Houghton  had  not 
taken  his  drink  now  and  then.  There  were  cer 
tain  dark  rumors  in  our  town  to  the  effect  that 
favored  ones  who  dropped  into  Kunz's  more 
often  than  seemed  needful  were  privileged  to 
have  a  thimbleful  of  something  choice  in  the  pre 
scription  room,  back  of  the  partition  at  the  rear 
of  the  drug  store.  But  that  was  the  most  devil 
ish  thing  that  Eddie  had  ever  done. 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

I  don't  say  that  all  crews  are  like  that  one. 
Perhaps  he  was  unfortunate  in  falling  in  with 
that  one.  But  it  was  an  Eastern  trip,  and  every 
port  was  a  Port  Said.  Eddie  Houghton's 
thoughts  were  not  these  men's  thoughts;  his 
actions  were  not  their  actions,  his  practices  were 
not  their  practices.  To  Eddie  Houghton,  a 
Chinese  woman  in  a  sampan  on  the  water  front 
at  Shanghai  was  something  picturesque;  some 
thing  about  which  to  write  home  to  his  mother 
and  to  Josie.  To  those  other  men  she  was  pos 
sible  prey. 

Those  other  men  saw  that  he  was  different, 
and  they  pestered  him.  They  ill-treated  him 
when  they  could,  and  made  his  life  a  hellish 
thing.  Men  do  those  things,  and  people  do  not 
speak  of  it.  I  don't  know  all  the  things  that  he 
suffered.  But  in  his  mind,  day  by  day,  grew 
the  great,  overwhelming  desire  to  get  away  from 
it  all — from  this  horrible  life  that  was  such  a 
dreadful  mistake.  I  think  that  during  the  long 
night  watches  his  mind  was  filled  with  thoughts 
of  our  decent  little  town — of  his  mother's 
kitchen,  with  its  Wednesday  and  Saturday  scent 
of  new-made  bread — of  the  shady  front  porch, 
with  its  purple  clematis — of  the  smooth  front 

[226] 


WHERE  THE  CAR  TURNS  AT  18TH 

yard  which  it  was  his  Saturday  duty  to  mow  that 
it  might  be  trim  and  sightly  for  Sunday — of  the 
boys  and  girls  who  used  to  drop  in  at  the  drug 
store — those  clear-eyed,  innocently  coquettish, 
giggling,  blushing  girls  in  their  middy  blouses 
and  white  skirts,  their  slender  arms  and  throats 
browned  from  tennis  and  boating,  their  eyes 
smiling  into  his  as  they  sat  perched  at  the  foun 
tain  after  a  hot  set  of  tennis — those  slim,  clean 
young  boys,  sun-browned,  laughing,  their  talk 
all  of  swimming,  and  boating,  and  tennis,  and 
girls. 

He  did  not  realize  that  it  was  desertion — 
that  thought  that  grew  and  grew  in  his  mind. 
In  it  there  was  nothing  of  faithlessness  to  his 
country.  He  was  only  trying  to  be  true  to  him 
self,  and  to  the  things  that  his  mother  had 
taught  him.  He  only  knew  that  he  was  deadly 
sick  of  these  sights  of  disease,  and  vice.  He 
only  knew  that  he  wanted  to  get  away — back  to 
his  own  decent  life  with  the  decent  people  to 
whom  he  belonged.  And  he  went.  He  went, 
as  a  child  runs  home  when  it  had  tripped  and 
fallen  in  the  mud,  not  dreaming  of  wrong-doing 
or  punishment. 

The  first  few  hundred  miles  on  the  train  were 
[227] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

a  dream.  But  finally  Eddie  found  himself  talk 
ing  to  a  man — a  big,  lean,  blue-eyed  western 
man,  who  regarded  Eddie  with  kindly,  puzzled 
eyes.  Eddie  found  himself  telling  his  story  in  a 
disjointed,  breathless  sort  of  way.  When  he  had 
finished  the  man  uncrossed  his  long  lean  legs, 
took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  and  sat  up. 
There  was  something  of  horror  in  his  eyes  as  he 
sat,  looking  at  Eddie. 

"Why,  kid,"  he  said,  at  last.  "You're  de 
serting!  You'll  get  the  pen,  don't  you  know 
that,  if  they  catch  you?  Where  you  going?" 

"Going!"  repeated  Eddie.  "Going!  Why, 
I'm  going  home,  of  course." 

"Then  I  don't  see  what  you're  gaining,"  said 
the  man,  "because  they'll  sure  get  you  there." 

Eddie  sat  staring  at  the  man  for  a  dreadful 
minute.  In  that  minute  the  last  of  his  glorious 
youth,  and  ambition,  and  zest  of  life  departed 
from  him. 

He  got  off  the  train  at  the  next  town,  and  the 
western  man  offered  him  some  money,  which 
Eddie  declined  with  all  his  old-time  sweetness 
of  manner.  It  was  rather  a  large  town,  with  a 
great  many  busy  people  in  it.  Eddie  went  to  a 
cheap  hotel,  and  took  a  room,  and  sat  on  the 

[228] 


WHERE  THE  CAR  TURNS  AT  18TH 

edge  of  the  thin  little  bed  and  stared  at  the  car 
pet.  It  was  a  dusty  red  carpet.  In  front  of  the 
bureau  many  feet  had  worn  a  hole,  so  that  the 
bare  boards  showed  through,  with  a  tuft  of 
ragged  red  fringe  edging  them.  Eddie  Hough- 
ton  sat  and  stared  at  the  worn  place  with  a  curi 
ously  blank  look  on  his  face.  He  sat  and  stared 
and  saw  many  things.  He  saw  his  mother,  for 
one  thing,  sitting  on  the  porch  with  a  gingham 
apron  over  her  light  dress,  waiting  for  him  to 
come  home  to  supper;  he  saw  his  own  room — 
a  typical  boy's  room,  with  camera  pictures  and 
blue  prints  stuck  in  the  sides  of  the  dresser  mir 
ror,  and  the  boxing  gloves  on  the  wall,  and  his 
tennis  racquet  with  one  string  broken  (he  had 
always  meant  to  have  that  racquet  re-strung) 
and  his  track  shoes,  relics  of  high  school  days, 
flung  in  one  corner,  and  his  gay-colored  school 
pennants  draped  to  form  a  fresco,  and  the  cush 
ion  that  Josie  Morehouse  had  made  for  him  two 
years  ago,  at  Christmas  time,  and  the  dainty 
white  bedspread  that  he  had  always  fussed  about 
because  he  said  it  was  too  sissy  for  a  boy's  room 
— oh,  I  can't  tell  you  what  he  saw  as  he  sat  and 
stared  at  that  worn  place  in  the  carpet.  But 
pretty  soon  it  began  to  grow  dark,  and  at  last  he 
[229] 


BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 

rose,  keeping  his  fascinated  eyes  still  on  the  bare 
spot,  walked  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  backed 
out  queerly,  still  keeping  his  eyes  on  the  spot. 

He  was  back  again  in  fifteen  minutes,  with  a 
bottle  in  his  hand.  He  should  have  known  bet 
ter  than  to  choose  carbolic,  being  a  druggist,  but 
all  men  are  a  little  mad  at  such  times.  He  lay 
down  at  the  edge  of  the  thin  little  bed  that  was 
little  more  than  a  pallet,  and  he  turned  his  face 
toward  the  bare  spot  that  could  just  be  seen  in 
the  gathering  gloom.  And  when  he  raised  the 
bottle  to  his  lips  the  old-time  sweetness  of  his 
smile  illumined  his  face. 

Where  the  car  turns  at  Eighteenth  Street 
there  is  a  big,  glaring  billboard  poster,  showing 
a  group  of  stalwart  young  men  in  white  ducks 
lolling  on  shores  of  tropical  splendor,  with 
palms  waving  overhead,  and  a  glimpse  of  blue 
sea  in'  the  distance.  The  wording  beneath  it 
runs  something  like  this: 

" Young  men  wanted.  An  unusual  oppor 
tunity  for  travel,  education  and  advancement. 
Good  pay.  No  expenses." 

When    I    see    that   sign    I    think   of   Eddie 
Houghton  back  home.     And  when  I  think  of 
Eddie  Houghton  I  see  red. 
[230] 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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